Donnie Darko, I don't care about your dog

We die alone. It’s a phrase thrown around by teenage nihilists, armchair philosophers, and anything ever that’s tried to be “edgy” or “dark.”  Variations include “we all die alone,” and “you will die alone.” 

When you really think about it, the deep truth to that statement is more of a “duh.” We as humans exist as individual entities and so when we die, we will be the only one going where we are going, the only one in our dying body and mind. We will be finally separate from everyone and everything we have ever known, as none of it will be relevant in death and nothing can save us from our own mortality. So, we die alone. 

It sounds pretty awful until you start to wonder what exactly separates death from anything else we’ll ever experience. The answer is: absolutely nothing. We not only die alone, but we live alone, we love alone, we think alone, and we are even born alone. Each of us is trapped inside of ourselves, locked away from the deep connection that could be seen as the antidote to loneliness. We are not telepathic, nor are we parts of a collective hive-mind. There is no way to directly hook up one human’s subjectivity to another’s. Thoughts and feelings must be processed into and diluted by language in order to be shared. Every one of us is pasting ourselves into a “translate into:” box in an effort to be known by others, and we all know that when something is translated, parts of it change or are lost. 

We die alone because it is an experience that cannot be shared, just like existing. The powerlessness of others to stop or redirect our deaths is similarly reflected in life. While other humans may contribute to our comfort and bring us joy, they have no real control over our lives. Each of us is an autonomous individual, and while another person can attempt to coerce, guide, or intimidate us, we alone control our choices. No one has any power over our life that they do not have over our death. 

The only reason we react so negatively to the concept of a solo death is the connotations we have attached to both the ideas of death and isolation. We fear separation from other human beings in a real sense, as we are able to connect on certain levels, and the absence of that connection is dangerous, painful and unnerving. We must realize, though, that that connection is also available at the moment of death – we can still love and be loved, we can still converse, we can still coexist. But what we cannot achieve in death, we also cannot achieve in life. If people stopped living in denial of our isolation in life, our isolation in death would cease to matter to us at all.  All we can do is strive in life to come as close as we can to complete togetherness, accept that we cannot truly make it there, and understand that no part of our human existence is more limited or demanding than any other part.

Generation Zero

[Piece removed because it was awful]

Post-9/11

“Post-9/11 mindset” was a term that started getting thrown around Sept. 12, 2001. I was eleven at the time, and a lot of the talk was about how my generation would be affected by the change in national perspective. I couldn’t have cared less, and as I grew into young adulthood in the only world I’d ever known, the term continued to sound like a meaningless buzzword used by pundits to try and easily explain away everything happening around us. It then appeared as an excuse to infringe upon our civil liberties, and my apathy toward the term turned into vitriol. I thought it was an overblown, meaningless term that gained popularity because it was an easy excuse for any behvaior. It wasn’t until I went to a baseball game with my grandparents the week before I started at Goucher that I accepted the reality of the different generational perspectives. 

We got to the stadium and they wouldn’t let us into our seats, saying that there was a “suspicious package” left unattended that they needed to investigate. We were stuck sitting downstairs in the little health center until the area was cleared. My grandparents were concerned and wondered why, if there was a possible bomb, the entire place wasn’t being evacuated. I, more used to the hypervigilance of our times, was nonchalant and told them “it’s probably a bag of potato chips or something. They don’t really think it’s a bomb, they just have to follow protocol because it could be.” They didn’t understand how everyone was so calmly accepting the paradoxical assumption that “it’s not a bomb, but it might be,” but I come from a high school that evacuates into the parking lot for bomb threats and I’ve never been to a mall, airport or concert venue that didn’t request that we report “suspicious or unattended bags.” 

It gets more complicated than that, however. Fear turned into annoyance and my grandfather didn’t understand what was taking so long. I told them “they can’t just go poke it and see if it explodes,” and I was prepared to patiently wait for the situation to be cleared up. It’s easier for me to conceive of the possibility of such an act of public violence, because they happen today in schools and trains and other places. I’m also used to waits like this, and I anticipate the possibility of one every time I set foot in a public place. It was interesting to me how I was much less upset about having to wait even though I was less concerned about the actual threat, while my grandparents were more afraid but also more impatient. 

Conclusion: there is something to the “post-9/11 mindset” and it’s much more complex than just being afraid of terrorists or feeling desensitized to the threat. I see the world differently than older generations. To me, the threat of random civilian bombings or shootings is real and I take it for granted that it’s a risk we take by existing in this society. I also expect to deal with the necessary reactions to this threat, even though I know that the majority of the time, the alarm is false. 

My grandparents seem to see it as more black-and-white: either there is a threat and we should be very frightened, or there is not a threat and we should not be inconvenienced. Our generation inhabits a grey area where the threat of terrorism is almost a Shroedinger’s cat scenario – it may and may not exist simultaneously, and we must always act according to this dual possibility, refusing to allow ourselves to react as if it was certainly present but also preparing ourselves for its possible presence. Oh, and remember my theory on the cause of the panic? We found out later a cameraman had left his lunch in the wrong place.

What You Do - Letter of Instruction

(I wrote this during the second semester of my senior year of high school. I was waiting to get out of that life, to finish and be in college, and this is a prose-poem of sorts where I was trying to capture that desperate apathy and the feeling that existence at the time was just a holding pattern, a pointless intermission while waiting for purpose and joy. It's supposed to read like a list of commands, hence all the action verbs at the beginnings of the sentences.)

What do you do with a day? What do you do with a day after you’ve given up on it, postponed the revolution for another twenty-four hours, resigned yourself to the waiting? What do you do until? 

Wake up to screaming red numbers, far too early, your last memory of slimy, heavy thoughts pushing into sleep. Slam the screaming off and hit the lights, glance over the whiteboard list of things you need to do and fight the flitting panic with a sigh and an excuse. Feel time sliding forward with you along for the ride and wonder why you bother steering when everything is already headed somewhere. Stand under the hot water and step out, feeling no cleaner, no newer, than before. Leave before the mirror clears from the steam, no concern for looks. Feed the cat, grab a drink, make sure you have your glasses and phone. Scribble down an essay you forgot to do, chew on the pen. Your teeth hurt. 

Ride to school, watch the memorized route through the window, a memorized voice in your ear. Meet with a teacher, settle into the undefined roles, familiar but vague, somewhat codependent, aloof. Rubber stamp on your sheet. Done. Walk to class, sit outside on the linoleum, edit a junior’s paper, think about sitcoms, wonder about the future of your highlighters. 

Class starts. Answer questions about a poem. Decide to read the poem again, realize you like the poem more, and understand it less, than the College Board wants to allow. Think about Echo and Narcissus and mothers and romanticized notions of pain. Write a note to the best friend, check your phone for no reason. 

Move, new class. Cradle a fetal pig in non-latex gloved hands. Picture your brain light up with neurotransmitters, reactions, nurturing instinct. Mentally cite research studies, the “aww” factor, the “cuddle chemical”. Want to protect but instead slice and cut and poke and examine. Stand there awed and fascinated and horrified and revolted at it, pink and helpless and soft and curled. Worry about transfer when a misplaced scalpel catches on your hand. Clean up with a queasy stomach.

Move. Ask in broken Spanish for permission to leave without a pass. Leave. Hand out questionnaires to freshmen, get lost in the apathy and the ignorance. You don’t understand. Visit an old teacher, miss her, miss her class, wonder why she doesn’t teach everything. 

Move. Notice a bloody finger. Confusion, then the memory of the scalpel. Announce the situation nonchalantly, all worry gone. Sanitize for the benefit of those watching. Wonder what may have transferred, do not care. Take notes on Soviet leaders, scowl at your handwriting. 

Go to lunch. Don’t feel well. Stand in the sun, warm up, talk to your friends, feel the memory of the round face push against hunger. Walk inside, stand in line, try to eat an egg roll. Stand in line, offer up your ID. Get handed a box. Move outside, into the sun, eyes stinging. Open the box, check against the receipt, find everything in place: announcements, labels, envelopes, nonsense etiquette explanations, “put one inside the other”. Try to feel giddy, knowing this makes graduation a reality, but only check off one responsibility and add another. 

Move inside from the sun, “do your eyes feel weird?” Substitute, roll call, a name you keep forgetting you have. Stretch on the floor, watch the documentary on the projector screen. Glance at the couple cuddling behind you, try to settle on an appropriate level of jealousy. Watch. Get caught up in revolution, in youth, in romance, and even though you know it’s coming, you are blindsided when it falls apart. Try to fit the pieces in your mind; revolution defies definition. Feel like crying but decide against it for the sake of those nearby. Instead ball up your fists, feign numbness, resolve to join the fight once you can find it. 

Move. Give up quickly. Ignore the teacher at the board, bury yourself in what you can do. Edit junior papers and block out everything else. Leave.

I'm Home!

I'm back at Goucher, hooray! I'm adjusting the update schedule to allow for thrice-weekly updates without clumping things together. Updates will be as follows:

Sundays - fiction pieces!

Wednesdays - Wednesday is declared Stuff I Like To Do But Am Not Very Good At day. There'll be mostly slam poetry, provided I like it and continue slamming. If I don't have slam poetry, I'll put up photography, doodles, charts, or something. 

Fridays - essays!

So stay tuned. I also might clean up the site layout because I really don't like how messy it looks sometimes. 

I'd also like to ask for a quick favor here - I'd like to know exactly what sort of audience I have at this point (whether it's mostly my original AZ IB readers or if you all gave up on me and it's now generally Goucher kids) as well as how many of you there are. This will inform future online projects, so if you'd kindly comment with who you are (or at least where you're from, if anonymity is your bag), it would be much appreciated.

On Juicy Gossip

On Music Tastes

Songs referenced here are "Said The Spider To The Fly" by the Paper Chase, and "Two Cups Of Tea" by Star Fucking Hipsters.

Things To Occupy You Over Break #6: Stores

Lollyphile

They make absinthe, maple bacon and wasabi-ginger lollipops. No one will be "hard to shop for" after you discover this place. 

Etsy

The site itself is the world's most searchable anything ever - search by color, style, price, date, whatever. It makes Google look like the Dewey Decimal System. But the content is what's even more awesome - handcrafted everything, from bags and clothes to paper products to food to toys to whatever. You can even advertise customized things or request something with their "alchemy" tool. My favorite section is "geekery" - check out the jewelry, the steampunk and molecular stuff is awesome.

Woot! Shirts

If you've seen someone with a superawesome, not-cliche'd shirt, chances are good it was a Woot! purchase. Their stuff is irreverent and intelligent, and the way the shop is set up - a daily Woot! only available for one day, plus the ongoing derbies - adds excitement and suspense. Yes, they've made online t-shirt shopping exciting and suspenseful. If only they wrote calc books too. Also, reading their job applications/descriptions makes me want to work for them.

Rise Up!

I first found Rise Up! apparel in a store in Moab, a town where Mormons and hippies coexist peacefully. The profits go to charities that help children in third-world countries, which I think is pretty neat.

Teach The Controversy

No, it's not the Discovery Institute's gift shop. It's more t-shirts. If you think conspiracy theories, fundamentalist Bible interpretations, or old-fashioned superstitions are amusing, you'll love these. They also sell SCIENCE! shirts too, which are awesome as well.

StitchPixie

I really wanted a cityscape messenger bag for my laptop case, but the price was a little out of my range. Still, her stuff is fantastic (sperm and ovum coin pouch? YES.) 

A little side note about American Apparel: A lot of independent t-shirt online stores print on AA stuff. I know some people refuse to buy AA because of Dov Charney's reputation for being a total skeeze, and I understand not wanting to fund such skeezery, but I am torn. AA is sweatshop-free, and their special brand of worker-mistreatment must be viewed as more "voluntary". With Charney's reputation so public, anyone who works there anyway has made a choice to enter that environment, whether or not I think that environment should exist or be tolerated to begin with. So by linking these stores, I am not supporting the AA boycott, because I prefer sexist treatment of voluntary employees to sweatshop labor. I will, however, take this opportunity to say I do not condone Charney's behavior. I also don't like their ads.

WOCAM, Inc. update

Causes for optimism in the new year:

Public Health Protection Act

Proposed legislation to end drug advertising. Sign the petition here. I'm keeping an eye on this act, expect updates. Studies have found that drug advertising can have a negative effect on consumers and patients - it's been linked to issues like overprescription and patients being prescribed more expensive drugs for no reason.

Eli Lilly's "whisteblower" case heading toward a $1.4 million settlement

Eli Lilly illegally marketed the antipsychotic Zyprexa for unauthorized uses and to patients especially at-risk for the side effects. No summary I could give would properly describe just how enraging and wrong many of their actions were, so read the article. It also says that most of the major drug companies are facing similar charges, which means that finally someone is holding them accountable and exposing their dangers.

New code bans "reminder gifts" branded with drug logos for doctors

While this isn't a law, it's a new code from PRhMA that's notably more strict than previous codes and is anticipatory of new legislation that would legally mirror the professional code. Read a shorter article here.

On Reactions To Ignorance