#but i digress…… i wrote up a whole essay of nonsense in here….

[hotchipsauce]

psst pspspsps u should totally talk about grebbymints more ... i am enabling u......

AAAAAA bro….. my dude…. the thing is i always feel crazy talking about them together bc i think like they’ve only publicly interacted like 3 times? LOL (i have watched and documented every interview minty and grebby has appeared in for the leafs/marlies. it’s so bad. me being sick has actually helped me not be as weird about it since i had less screen time in general)

but even then me and @tufzy just constructed this whole separate reality in our heads for months about how like they prob got closer after getting called up and minty is the only familiar guy for grebby there due to being on the marlies together + no russian player on the leafs to fall back on for help so grebby is just sticking to minty’s side the whole time, and minty even tho he’s a lil popular with the leaf boys he still is looking out for his linemate. even when they get sent down they’re still drawn to each other out of habit. but i’m always like second guessing like wow this is pure delusion like maybe they don’t even fuck with each other like that it’s just coworker friendliness this rpf shit is truly a disease fr fr 🙏

and then the videos started dropping. they’re goofing off and pushing each other around during sewer ball. and then i see a single frame of minty next to grebs during the one rare tiktok that he shows up in. and the delusion starts anew

[michaelkeenan]

tl;dr: this latest academic journal hoax is over-hyped and the reporting on it is terrible A trio of academics submitted 20 ridiculous papers to various feminist/gender/related-studies journals in an effort to show the journals to be ridiculous. 7 papers were accepted. The coverage has been gloating and the Twitter response has been gleeful. But the more I look into it, the less there is to it. This is troubling, because smart people like Paul Graham and Patrick Collison have retweeted about it. WSJ article

The Chronicle of Higher Education article

Google Drive link with all the papers and the review comments

Here's the trio's essay on it. At times, I think they're deliberately vague about which ridiculous papers were accepted and which weren't. Here's a paragraph of theirs:

We used other methods too, like, “I wonder if that ‘progressive stack’ in the news could be written into a paper that says white males in college shouldn’t be allowed to speak in class (or have their emails answered by the instructor), and, for good measure, be asked to sit in the floor in chains so they can ‘experience reparations.’” That was our “Progressive Stack” paper. The answer seems to be yes, and feminist philosophy titan Hypatia has been surprisingly warm to it. Another tough one for us was, “I wonder if they’d publish a feminist rewrite of a chapter from Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf.” The answer to that question also turns out to be “yes,” given that the feminist social work journal Affilia has just accepted it.

The parallel structure of the paragraph, with 'The answer to that question also turns out to be "yes"' elides the very different fates of the two papers. Hypatia didn't publish the Progressive Stack paper, and in fact they rejected it three times. But phrasing it this way, you can describe it in the same paragraph as an accepted paper, and many people won't remember the difference. (Here's a Harvard lecturer's thread, with 10,000 Twitter Likes, describing the Progressive Stack paper as accepted.)

The coverage has been even worse. Here's a Quillette piece on it, with a part that a Facebook friend quoted:

[Hypatia] invited resubmission of a paper arguing that “privileged students shouldn’t be allowed to speak in class at all and should just listen and learn in silence,” and that they would benefit from “experiential reparations” that include “sitting on the floor, wearing chains, or intentionally being spoken over.” The reviewers complained that this hoax paper took an overly compassionate stance toward the “privileged” students who would be subjected to this humiliation, and recommended that they be subjected to harsher treatment.

This isn't just wrong; if anything, the reviewers opposed the shaming technique. Here are the full review comments for all three rejections of the paper. I don't see any concern for an overly compassionate stance, or any recommendation of harsher treatment. When a reviewer does mention it, their concern is that it might be ineffective, and they're uncomfortable with it. Here’s a quote from the second rejection:

What are experiential reparations? Say more about this. Also, some of your suggestions strike me as "shaming." I’ve never had much success with shaming pedagogies, they seem to foment more resistance by members of dominant groups.

And from the same reviewer in the third rejection:

Find a place for the experiential reparations. This still makes me feel uncomfortable, because it’s shame-y and I’m not sure that student can see it otherwise.

After reading the reviewer comments, I'm very sympathetic to the reviewers, and I update toward thinking that their field is not a made-up illegible jargon-fest. They say things like:

"There are dozens of claims that are asserted and never argued for."

"The author promises to explore key terms and explain why they are applicable to the classroom. They introduce: epistemic violence, epistemic oppression, epistemic violence, testimonial smothering, privilege-evasive epistemic pushback, epistemic exploitation, testimonial injustice, hermeneutical injustice, willful ignorance, virtuous listening, and strategic ignorance. This is too much ground to cover!!"

"The scholarship is not as sound as it could be; that is, the basic structure of the argument is plausible and interesting, but the submission has far too many issues that get in the way of a clear and sound presentation of the author’s argument."

"I think these are basically good insights, they need to be argued for more clearly and not just asserted as true. They are interesting claims, say more, say how, say why, and don't just assert...Explain."

These aren’t possible comments from a field full of fashionable nonsense that doesn’t mean anything. I'm sad to contemplate the reviewers trying to help someone fix the mistakes in their paper, while the authors' intention is to slip through as many mistakes as possible. As the editor wrote in an encouraging cover letter:

At the same time ref #1 is encouraging about your revisions. You'll note that ref #1 says, for example, that it's your earlier improvements that have generated some of the new problems that need attention!

See also this Twitter thread by one of the reviewers for the Masturbation is Rape paper (which was rejected). It's sad - he rejected the paper, but wrote some encouraging things, and the hoaxers quoted the positive parts in their essay.

I haven't looked at all the papers in detail; this isn’t a thorough investigation of all of it. Maybe I happened across the least-bad papers and the most-misleading coverage first. I think the "fat bodybuilding" paper is just as bad as it sounds: "fat bodybuilding" would be unhealthy, unpopular, and no sport has ever been started by someone proposing it in a paper to an obscure journal.

But other accepted papers, I think, use a trick: invent some fake data of interest to the journal, and include a discussion section with some silly digressions. The journal accepts the paper because the core is the interesting data, and then the hoax coverage says that the paper is about the silly digressions. For example, the core of the dog park paper is a fake observational study showing that humans, especially males, are faster to stop male-on-male dog sexual encounters than male-on-female sexual encounters. I think that's fine; it is actually indicative of heteronormativity or homophobia or whatever. The paper also has an angle about canine rape culture, and that is indeed silly, but the paper is not best described, as The Chronicle of Higher Education did, as being "about canine rape culture in dog parks in Portland".

There are things to learn from this whole thing. I have a lower opinion of fat studies than I did before. But I have a higher opinion of the various fields that correctly objected to ideology-pleasing buzzword-filled digressions, and I wish the coverage noted that in equal measure. I get the impression you have to fake some interesting data to get much Sokal-style fashionable nonsense through, and even then, they'll catch most of it.

(Maybe I’m minimizing the ridiculousness of what did get past the reviewers. I think a younger, more idealistic version of me would have been more shocked by it, like the commenters at Hacker News who think that peer review should be able to detect fabricated data. My mild reaction is partly due to not expecting Idealized Science-level rigor of these fields to start with.)

And no-one should be saying anything about the rejected papers, except for praising the journals for rejecting them. If you ask someone out, and they say they're flattered but they only like you as a friend, don't gloat that they said that they like you. It's a rejection.

[welllpthisishappening]

Hey! I absolutely love the blue line series, I’m obsessed with the actual Rangers because of this and your writing is wonderful. I was wondering if you write something about Robin, Regina and Roland’s relationship with Henry? Or anything about Henry’s life as a member of the Locksley-Mills family.

Of course, anon! So I was going to do some bullet points because I’ve got some thoughts and, like, Roland idolizes Henry when they’re growing up and Henry only ever wears a Jones jersey, but he plays center like Robin and he’s pretty good at hockey, even if he never goes pro and…I digress. I wrote some things instead. Time-wise, Henry’s 18 and getting ready to apply to college and here are some feelings. 

“Hello?”

Emma blinked, twisting her lip between her teeth and she wasn’t entirely prepared for the clipped tone on the other end of the phone.

“Emma,” Regina said, and she sat up straighter. The baby in her arms didn’t entirely appreciate that. “Emma,” Regina repeated. “I can see your name on the caller ID. I know it’s you. Unless it’s Matt and then Matt, I need you to give your mom back your phone. And tell your dad to respond to my e-mails.”

“What e-mails?” Emma asked.

“I knew it was you.”

“Are you negotiating endorsements with my four year old?”

“Certainly not if I can help it.”

Emma laughed under her breath, mumbling a string of nonsense into the tiny bit of dark hair in her arms and she was fairly positive her left leg was going to go numb. They had a game later that night – a few weeks removed from Christmas and Peggy’s first birthday and Emma had spent the majority of the day organizing several Garden of Dreams holiday-themed events, while trying to make sure that the towel on her shoulder stayed on her shoulder.

And reading Henry’s college application essay.

And not crying over Henry’s college application essay.

Which was why she’d twisted herself into an intricate human pretzel and called Regina, several tear-stained pages on her desk.

She’d totally failed on that whole not crying thing.

“Emma,” Regina muttered, and it was clear her patience was wearing thin. “Did you call me to discuss your husband’s endorsement deals? Because there’s a commercial that’s available and they want to use the entire first line and—“

“—No, no, I didn’t,” Emma interrupted. She could almost see Regina’s eyebrows jump, and Peggy made a noise that might have been a gurgle. The towel was working harder than any professional hockey player would that night.

“Then what’s going on?”

Emma grimaced – and she was sure Regina’s eyes widened and her lips probably thinned and they weren’t really the best of friends, but Regina did regularly influence the amount of money coming into the Swan-Jones household and Emma was, at least, ninety-six percent positive half of Matt’s clothes were in Roland’s room and…

“I do have a meeting in ten minutes,” Regina said sharply, and Emma clicked her teeth in frustration. “So unless someone is dying or there’s a career-ending injury I need to be aware of, then…”

“Oh my God, Gina, it’s nothing like that.”

Emma assumed she did something ridiculous with her face again. Probably glared at open air. And negotiated that commercial deal. Emma would have to mention that to Killian.

He was absolutely ignoring his e-mail.

“Then what’s going on?” Regina asked, voice not quite as sharp and, maybe, a little cautious, and Emma tried to take a deep breath through her nose.

Peggy made that noise again.

“Henry gave me his college application essay,” Emma said, rushing over the words and there were tears in her eyes again. What a goddamn disaster. She hoped they won later.

“Oh.”

Emma waited for the rest of it – the questions or comments or pointed opinions – but there was just silence. Or, relative silence. Peggy gurgled.

“Regina,” Emma mumbled, met with a sound that might have been a grunt or possibly a huff and she was going to have to make a list of all the things she had to tell Killian about this conversation.

“Still here,” she whispered. She sounded disappointed. “Were you just calling to tell me?”

“No, no, this is…I promise it’s good.”

More silence.

More gurgling.

“I’m serious,” Emma added, digging her heels into her office carpet and she heard the ding of Regina’s computer from several blocks downtown.

“Did you e-mail me this?”

“Yes.”

“Why? If Henry gave it to you then—“

“Oh my God, Regina, just read it. I swear this is a good thing.”

Regina hummed in disbelief, and there was the pointed opinion Emma had been waiting for. It took, by her count, forty-eight and a half seconds for Regina’s breath to audibly catch and mumble a quiet oh under her breath and she must have been some kind of speed reader.

And then Regina sniffled.

That was suddenly point number one on the list of things Emma had to tell Killian. Before the game.

“Henry wrote this?” Regina asked softly, and Emma nodded, well aware that the only person who could see her was a nearly-one-year-old baby who was already wearing a Jones jersey and yanking on a Stanley Cup ring with a surprising amount of strength.

“That’s why I figured you should read it.”

“Right, right, right, that’s um…thank you.”

Emma hummed, eyes flitting back to the sheets she’d printed out hours before. He was going to send it half a dozen schools – something about a guidance counselor’s advice and what was supposed to happen and Emma didn’t have much to add, just promised she’d read it and then she cried when she read it and, well, now she was pretty positive Regina was crying too.

When I was five years old, the foster home I was living in lost its cable subscription. I don’t know why. I’m not even sure the people running the house knew why, but it happened and there was no more Disney channel and no more Nickelodeon and the only thing to watch on a Sunday afternoon were over the air channels.

And the only thing on over the air channels on a Sunday afternoon was hockey.

New York Rangers hockey.

I should probably thank whoever forgot to pay that cable bill because that game changed my life.

I watched the game. I had no idea what was going on. It didn’t matter. I watched, and ignored the other kids and how much they wanted to watch Power Rangers instead, and when I turned ten I got my first Killian Jones jersey.

I never thought much about having a family.

Those kinds of thoughts were dangerous in foster homes – places where kids weren’t wanted or needed or, sometimes, even remembered. So I pushed those wants and those hopes into the back corner of my mind and figured if the Rangers could, eventually, win a Stanley Cup it was, basically, the same thing.

But then something happened.

A few weeks before I turned twelve, a call came to the house. There was an event. At Madison Square Garden. And I was going.

I cried.

The kids made fun of me, but they always made fun of how loudly I cheered during games, so it wasn’t much different. I went to the Garden and a woman named Emma Swan changed my life. She introduced me to Killian Jones and Killian Jones introduced me to the entire New York Rangers roster and, even though I didn’t know it at the time, I met my family that day.

I still didn’t think about it much, couldn’t let myself hope or dream, but the Rangers kept winning games and I kept watching and suddenly I wasn’t just cheering for hockey, I was part of hockey and part of a team and I never left.

Emma Swan changed my life. Killian Jones changed my life. But my parents saved my life.

Robin Locksley currently owns the Rangers all-time face-off win record. Regina Mills-Locksley currently dictates the contracts of nearly a dozen NHL stars and will, probably, get the entire Rangers first line another commercial deal by the time you read this essay.

But, more than that, Robin and Regina took me into their home and made sure I stayed. They gave me a room. They bought me team-march. They didn’t mind when I kept wearing that ratty Jones jersey for years.

They loved me.

Love me. Present tense.

I’m lucky. Incredibly so. Unbelievably so. The New York Rangers saved the foster home I grew up in; made sure the other kids who weren’t as lucky wouldn’t get shipped around the country or away from their friends when budget cuts threaten to do just that. The New York Rangers won the Stanley Cup. Twice. And I was there. Twice.

I’m lucky, but more than that I’m happy - and it wouldn’t have been possible without my mom or my dad or my brother or that entire hockey team that adopted me. That loves me. And I love ‘em right back.

That’d probably get me made fun of in the house again, but I’ll keep cheering anyway and keep believing and the Rangers are going to win another Cup. 

Soon.

There was more – more words and more feelings and Emma couldn’t read it again, because she really did have to get ready for the game, but Regina was silent again on the other end.

“If I ask if you’re still here are you going to retract Killian’s commercial offer?” Emma asked, not entirely expecting Regina’s quiet laugh.

“No, he’s the focus of the whole goddamn thing. Don’t tell Scarlet that.”

“I’m totally going to tell Scarlet that.”

“Ah, well, that might be good for his ego.” Emma hummed, waiting for the rest of it and determined not to ask anything else, and she was almost hopeful Peggy had fallen asleep. She had a few assumptions though. And maybe a bit of hope. “That’s the first time he’s used those words,” Regina said, answering the question Emma hadn’t asked. “I know you were wondering, so, there.”

“So there?”

“Yes, exactly that.”

Emma scoffed, Regina exhaling like it was the first time she’d ever done anything like that. “You guys haven’t…”

“It wasn’t…” Regina, started, cutting herself off quickly, and they seriously had to win. Maybe that should have been number one on the list of things to tell Killian. “It was just a label and words and letters and I’ve…Robin and I are Henry’s parents. We have been since we signed those papers and I just…”

She sniffled again, and this whole conversation was a fantastic exercise in patience and emotion. “I always kind of wondered how it’d sound though,” she whispered.

“Pretty damn good,” Emma said.

“Yeah, yeah, it does.”

“He’s going to get accepted to every single college he applies to so you should really work on that commercial thing for the money or whatever.”

“Those are absolutely the technical terms,” Regina laughed, any tension in her voice disappearing. “Tell your husband to answer my e-mails.”

“Tell your kid he made me cry. More than one.”

“Deal.”

The Rangers won. And Robin scored. And there was probably some kind of fate involved in that, but this was the kind of team that won Stanley Cups and gold medals and team wasn’t really the right word anyway because it was a family and that was stupid emotional.

And years later, after more stories and that guaranteed championship, Henry asked Ella to marry him, bent on one knee with that family he’d never allowed himself to hope for around him and a ring pinched in between his fingers.

“It’s my mom’s,” he said, and Regina’s gaze flitted towards Emma’s, tears in her eyes and a smile on her face and Henry’s whole life changed all over again.

[distant-rose]

1, 10, 16, 22 FOR SALTY ASKS, BITCH! xo

1. What OTPs in your fandom(s) do you just not get?

I’m going to say it and people are going to possibly fight me but Rumbelle. As someone who specializes in family and human rights law, it’s hard for me to watch because I feel like I’m watching one of my cases, particularly cases regarding Battered Women’s Syndrome where women are put through a cycle of abuse and affection that eventually leads to them snapping and killing their partners due to the constant fear that they feel. Granted, that didn’t happen on the show and I don’t think Adam & Eddy even have a clue what BWS is but it was the cycle that got me - the manipulation, the gaslighting and sometimes even trespass against the person via false imprisonment. (And yes, false imprisonment is categorized as trespass against the person in tort.) I constantly cringed while watching them mainly because it became clear many times that Rumple just doesn’t respect Belle’s autonomy and views her more as a coveted object than a partner.

Another is honestly…Kataang. I don’t find it abusive for the record or anything. And just a PSA out there for you, you CAN dislike a ship and not find it abusive, just saying. It’s more that I felt there wasn’t much chemistry for Aang and Katara. There was a serious maturity gap between them. I felt to me that Aang was always trying to hold on to his childhood and really not face issues unless they were pressing and he felt compelled too while Katara honestly acted more like an adult, which isn’t surprising considering the fact her mother died when she was young and she and Sokka were often left on their own because of the war. Katara really faced things head on and I feel like her actions towards Aang were more maternal than anything. @justanotherwannabeclassic and I have discussed this before but it feels like Katara was just a prize for Aang for saving the world and kinda lost her autonomy as person. She just became his girlfriend when she was a master fucking waterbender and I don’t think she would have been satisfied with just being a wife and mother, not that there is anything wrong with that but she’s very much into helping people and being a revolutionary - she was the fucking Painted Lady, c’mon now.

I could write an entire essay on these two and other ships but honestly this answer is long enough as is.

I’m gonna put my other answers under the cut because I have a lot of salt

10. Most disliked arc? Why?

Alana. Seriously. If I could, I would rewrite the entire Once Upon a Time show post-season three. There’s so many things I have an issue with in regard to OUAT but if I had to chose one and this is hard, but the entire Killian killed David’s Dad/Killian’s Realm Tour 2017. That story arc was bullshit, in fact most of season six was bullshit. Season five was also bullshit but I digress. Anyway, I think the whole issue of Killian killing Robert was fucking dumb and was just drama for drama’s sake because Adam and Eddy got lazy and apparently wrote the majority of their plots high, and not the good kind of high. Like the kinda high you get when you buy cheap ass marijuana from a sketchy street vender in Switzerland kinda high. That’s the minor beef I have with this arc, the main bit is the Emma moping and thinking Killian abandoned her nonsense. Girl, we just went through THREE SEASONS of crazy ass insanity where it was confirmed MANY times that Killian wasn’t ever going to leave her, loved her and would die like five hundred times for her. The fact that she immediately thought that he left instead of, maybe I don’t know, being kidnapped or hurt is just absurd to me. It’s fucking absurd. 

16. If you could change anything in the show, what would you change?

Oh god, where to do I fucking begin. Number one, I would have had a fucking real overarching plot for OUAT and I would have totally reworked seasons four through seven with more original spins. One of the things that attracted me to the show in the first place was how they took characters like Snow White and Little Red Riding Hood and they turned them on their heads and made them bad ass and unique. That didn’t seem to happen much post-season three. I would have changed Elsa and Anna up a bit instead of making them carbon copies of their movie selves. It would be something making Elsa morally grey and a boss ass political bitch who gives Regina a run for her money and make Anna an absolute tomboy who have no interest in being a princess but would rather be a flower child and walk around in the woods all day bare foot and incredibly strong because all she does is climb trees. I love the idea of playing Elsa off as winter and Anna as a spring. Work with that. That would have been an interesting thing. 

Also, I actually did not enjoy the author arc at all. I get the idea of playing around with the characters as inverse/opposites of their true natures but I just rolled my eyes a lot. I would have done an entirely different arc, maybe looked more at realm traveling or you know actually address whether people want to return to the Enchanted Forrest. Hell, I would have maybe even done something about the town line and whether the citizens of Storybrooke wanted to explore the outside world. 

Dark Swan was a wasted opportunity in my opinion and they really missed a chance to make Emma actually do some really crazy shit and you know confront some of the issues that had been buried under the rug in the past few seasons but that’s not biggest issue actually. I had more issues with the Underworld as a Greek mythology buff than I did with Dark Swan but how they did the Dark Ones thing could have been so much better. But Underworld deserves more of my beef. *sigh* That, personally to me, was a wasted arc creatively. Don’t get me wrong, I cried like a bit at the elevator scene but I feel like they should have gone more Greek myth than Disney Hades. I think I’ve said before to @katie-dub that it would have been more interesting if Hades wasn’t so much of an antagonist but more of someone who misleads them into thinking that Killian is in the worst part of the Underworld while he really isn’t, he’s either on the Asphodel Meadows and doesn’t remember her or in Elysium where he’s completely at peace and taking him back would pose more of a moral question for Emma on whether or not she should. 

We can all agree that seasons six is a train wreck right? I was a little annoyed at the timelines and the issues brought up in regard to Captain Swan. It seemed like they were issues that had been addressed or should have been addressed in previous seasons. I found the whole wedding thing super rushed. I would have been content if Captain Swan had more of background role drama-wise and maybe they actually used the wedding to really build on Emma and Snow’s relationship more because it had been strongly ignored. The Black Fairy was a wasted villain and Gideon wasn’t really necessary. Let’s be real, that final battle was a massive letdown and the last time I checked a TLK doesn’t save you from normal mortal wounding. I kinda wished they played around with the Untold Stories Thing a bit more in S6. I would have totally nixed the Wish Realm and the Musical Episode even though I liked the music. I just found a lot of their plots confusing, unnecessary and tired.

Okay, I didn’t watch a lot of season seven but I do have an issue with the recycling of plots and characters. I don’t mind Jacinda or Tilly/Alice but I found the whole recycle of Alice in Wonderland and Cinderella a sign that the creative well had run dry. I wish they had work with new material and stories such as the Labyrinth, Black Cauldron, Treasure Island, Atlantis or even fucking Enchanted. They could have also worked in on some of the legends from 1,001 Arabian Nights, worked more with Greek mythology particularly the Odyssey or the Argonauts. There’s a lot of creative things they could have done and just didn’t do. You’re welcome to like season seven and the characters it introduced but it just felt more like a money grab with incredibly lazy writing.

22. Popular character you hate?

I have a feeling a lot of people might unfollow me for this one but David Tennant’s Tenth Doctor. Like I’m sure not a lot of people have noticed this but I do not reblog anything with Ten in it. I know he’s everyone’s favorite and people love him and think he’s attractive but I actually hate his treatment of Rose, Martha and Donna as well as his weird space casanova act. I actually don’t really like Ten/Rose that much mainly because Ten doesn’t seem to have the same love and denotation for her that Nine did and was totally cool with leaving her and Mickey alone in a murder robot infested space in the 51st century to chase after Madame Pompadour. I don’t think the Ninth “I could save the world but lose you” Doctor would have done the whole “does it need saying?” and would have left Rose in Pete’s World with his clone without giving her a say. I was really irked by that. He whined about how much he missed Rose for TWO. WHOLE. FUCKING. SEASONS and when she came back, he’s like “here, have my clone and fuck off.” It bothered me so much and I think a lot of Rose hate is honestly based off Ten’s melodramatic ass and how he whined about missing Rose and made Martha feel inferior. Martha Jones was a fucking boss and didn’t deserve the shit he gave her. And then, we have Donna, poor Donna who didn’t get a choice at all in her fate. He chose it for her and that will never not bother me. Rose, Martha and Donna deserved more. End of story.

[liasfinalportfolio]

The Reading Profile Draft #3

The Reading Profile

At any given point in everyone’s lives, one tends to wonder about their identity. From how other people look at you to what your religious identity is, wondering about ourselves is one of the things that makes us human. Yet while wondering all that, my Identity as a reader is something that I never put much thought in.

I didn’t read many essays before this, however it seems like I enjoyed reading the essays more than I initially thought. I seem to frequently question what type of reading I like. On almost all essay responses I mentioned point of view: wondering which is the best one, which do I enjoy the most.  

The conclusion -something I came up with at the very last response- is that no point of view is my favourite. The writing style of the author is what makes a piece enjoyable for me, not the point of view.

I never mentioned it, but as mad as it may sound, I actually wasn’t sure a writing style existed.

Now it seems so obvious, but a couple months ago the idea of a writing style was a foreign concept on my mind.

I knew art styles, however while I believed different feelings could be expressed through writing, the styles (depending on the point of view) where practically the same.

If I am being perfectly honest, I am not aware why I thought that at all. It all seems so clear now, so many books I have read in the past are drastically different. Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events for example, is drastically different that, say Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (both favourites).

The fact I just didn’t think there was a difference absolutely baffles me.

When I first started with the first essay ‘Eat, Memory: Orange Crush’ I didn’t find anything surprising, or complicated. The way it was written was not amiss to my usual non-fiction reading material. I could relate to the feelings of shame the author (YiYun Li)  had while she was younger, and her situation was similar enough for me to feel a sort of kinship.

The next essay I read was ‘Street Haunting’ by Virginia Woolf. Here I had a small realisation on the wonders of writing. The essay was written on 1930, and it almost felt like a form of time travel, being on the shoes of someone from the past for a short while.

I came to realise the writing style of Woolf in this particular essay, almost felt like a song. It was poetic and illustrative, something I noticed I enjoy reading.  However lovely it may be though, I did get confused at times, the many metaphors forcing me to read a couple paragraphs more than once.

I made it clear that I like straightforward, first person books, however I also enjoy reading other things, such as the nonsensical style authors such as Douglas Adams and Lewis Carroll seem to enjoy.

Another type of writing I am fond of are the fan-made works you can find online. Things such as theories, what-if scenarios (especially if they turn on a giant story) politics on non-political works of fiction (ie. Harry Potter) and more, seeing the fan’s perspective on books I like is always an amazing experience.

In regards to ‘Seeing’ I once more felt the writing style seemed like a song, a poem or a rhyme. In my original response I wrote Dillard somehow managed to paint a beautiful picture in my mind. Which made me wonder if the fact I relate beautiful writing with songs and paintings, has something to do with the fact those two (music and art) are the fields I lean towards the most.

Beauty in words is a thing, but although you can read the words, I feels like it probably isn’t a visual kind of beauty. More conceptual and abstract perhaps. Song lyrics can be that way as well, but usually they’re joined by a melody which gives you an emotion to feel.

Art such as paintings and drawings on the other hand, offer different type of beauty, a visual one.

It’s the same with a very beautiful person (Marina Diamandis and a young Winona Ryder comes to mind), a beautiful place full of nature or a particularly adorable young animal. Just looking at them, at the beauty that someone (either God or an artist. Although it can be said God is an artist) created.

When even the imperfections look fitting, the thing you’re admiring just looks so perfect and beautiful that you get pleasure (not the sexual kind, but rather the fulfilling one) just from looking at them.

I’ve realised I’ve gone off on a tangent. I could keep talking about beauty in all its forms, what it truly is, and if it’s even real for ages, however that wasn’t what was (unintentional alliteration) asked from me so I digress.  

The next essay was ‘Knoxville’. It probably was my least favourite essay, not because it was badly written, or anything similar, but rather because it made it quite easy for me to get lost. Although I really enjoyed certain scenes, this one in particular:

The noise of the locust is dry, and it seems not to be rasped or vibrated but urged from him as if through a small orifice by a breath that can never give out. Also there is never one locust but an illusion of at least a thousand. The noise of each locust is pitched in some classic locust range out of which none of them varies more than two full tones: and yet you seem to hear each locust discrete from all the rest, and there is a long, slow, pulse in their noise, like the scarcely defined arch of a long and high set bridge. They are all around in every tree, so that the noise seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, from the whole shell heaven, shivering in your flesh and teasing your eardrums, the boldest of all the sounds of night.

After reading ‘Knoxville’, I thought that perhaps I just understood essays written by females better (one of my weirdest theories if I’m completely honest) but the next essay (Joyas Voladoras) proved that theory completely wrong.

It is more than a bit obvious that I enjoyed this one the most. Perhaps it was the fact I could listen while I read. It made focusing on the words an obligation, unless I wanted the recording to get ahead of me.

While it probably wasn’t the shortest, it definitely was the one I read the quickest; again, hearing the words she read spoken making it easier to understand and stay on track.

I now wish everything could be both heard and read at the same time. Using two of my senses made everything so much easier, and it is not only on written media. When I’m watching videos I also tend to turn captions on, they make everything much easier to understand.

What I probably enjoyed the most, is probably that it seemed like a mixture of things; between animal facts, the author’s opinion and the slightly philosophical questioning, the essay was a very delightful read. The fact that he compared the hummingbird’s heart beats and the blue whales, something I’ve done before, albeit with different animals, just made it much better.

All in all, reading all this essays has been a learning experience. I’ve learned a lot about writing, and myself. One of the things I noticed, was that I tend to get distracted every few minutes if I’m not really focused in what I’m writing. Using the Pomodoro technique has been a huge help. Music helps too, depending on my mood and the kind of music. As I write this, I’m listening to music and yet it hasn’t really distracted me like other times.

I hope with this I might be able, if not fix my problems, at least make them less potent.

[ghostofsound]

Rant that you should not read because I just have shit on my mind that I needed to write down, plus it’s over 3,000 words and somehow I wrote it in an hour when it takes me hours plural to write 1,000 word essays, but yeah it’s too long and not worth your time trust me

I just need a place to vent so please don’t read this cuz it’s basically stressed nonsense. I often find a correlation between my educational path, my romantic pursuits, and my journey to discover myself. These are all vital in the future of my life, with the whole life discovering shit being the primary objective. Who the fuck am I? Why am I here? What put me here? Why does, say, my trash can not have a soul coursing through it, yet I do? I did not do anything to earn this, nor have I done anything to prove I deserve it. I would argue I don’t but to judge my life off of 2 decades is equitable to judging a film by the first 20 minutes, which I have done so I guess I should stop doing both.

Our lives are consumption. I enjoy watching certain things, reading certain things, consuming certain things. Why do I enjoy these things? And why does my joy for certain things outcast me in specific settings? Why does it make me accepted in others? Why do I sometimes enjoy the outcast moniker, yet others it leads me to feeling unsatisfied and depressed? I don’t even know if depressed should be the word I use. 

I think the main thing I want from my job is to aid others. That is the type of person I am. However, I have so many selfish moments in my life as well. There are certain things I do that get tail-ended by me saying “well hey, it doesn’t affect me”. What a dick. That’s me. That’s the person who wants to aid others. I feel like I want to steer others in the right track, but I can’t fucking steer anyone, shit, as if I had that amount of influence. I can’t influence myself, let alone another human with separate ideas and destinations. But what job would fit me other than teaching? It’s really perfect, because it is high class enough that I can have mentally stimulating conversations and thoughts on, at the least, a weekly basis. It is also low class enough that I do not feel constantly stressed that I will not be accepted by peers who are older or smarter (which often correlate in some fields). In my current job, I work with 24/25 year old people (most graduate students), whereas I am a couple years below that, AND I’m an undergrad, so I constantly feel a need to prove I am at their level of knowledge or effort, but why? What does that do for me? I go home equal amounts tired and stressed; it is not a stress-relieving activity nor gratifying enough to exert that energy. Anyway, I hate chasing down acceptance, but I also would not want to work with idiots (been there, done that) and constantly feel superior. I resent the superiority. I reject the inferiority. I reject so much, and I have no idea how much until the opportunity to reject is gone.

Relationships are fucked. Plain and simple. I feel like I constantly try to understand them, and different ones teach me different things. For example, when I dated a girl I barely knew and instantly realized she was crazy and somehow by my own mercy she moved and got married in Texas at the age of 20, that taught me to get to know people before pursuing anything with them. True story. I’ve only had one major relationship, which I think was such a terrible thing for that relationship. I never cheated, but there were times in my head I had “What if?”, because I knew I liked the girl I was dating so much that I got scared of being tied down. We had our ups and downs, and of course as I look back it becomes harder to remember the downs, and the ups just blare in my mind as if my head is screaming at me that I fucked up. Family members tell me I will be with this girl again, but at first I found that ignorant, as if they are so in denial they just say it will revert to the norm. Reverting to the norm will be brought back up in the next paragraph. But my family had a unique outside perspective that I did not earn until the relationship ended, which was a mutual decision. We both go to separate schools, and keeping up grades, social groups, work, mental health, etc., it leaves no room for a solid relationship. That leads me to thinking about if my life had a different course, one where those years are replaced with different experiences, and then this relationship happened after I have gotten an answer to “What if?”. If I enter a relationship with all the answers, can I still gain? And is that gain, and the place where I gained, all a comfort zone for me? This all relates to my theories of God, or lack thereof. The belief in God seems ignorant to me, but so does believing I end up wanting to be back with an old flame, yet here I am somewhat admitting to that desire. Do this relationship strive in different time periods? Was my gap of time between relationships just an essential element to mending this old flame? Or am I so absolutely stressed, so absolutely defeated by life’s onslaught, that I retreat. As if this old relationship is a dome in which I can retreat. For all I know they want nothing to do with me, and I don’t blame them. I was disconnected. We were moving through the motions. I didn’t know what I wanted, and honestly I still don’t. I keep thinking I want kindness, physical satisfaction, and care (which I purposefully distinguish as separate from kindness, because I myself feel moments where care is lost but I always strive to be kind). However, is that really what I want? Our relationship felt like constant chaos, it made me feel anxious, it kept me on my toes. Hell, maybe I want the chaos. It seemed like a big portion of what did not work was how alike we were, to the point where it was actually an issue. There was an aspect where I needed to be the opposite, but I could not fulfill that. I know it appeared as a lack of trying, but it was not. It was simply a lack of skill to become what was desired. But looking back, and seeing who I am, I think I could make it work. I don’t know if you will find someone who is willing, and you probably think I am in the pile of those who aren’t, but I am in the pile that can, and now, shit, I may want to. It’s getting late, I am maximum stressed, I have made decisions that I cannot go back on. I have had three moments of rapid depression, where it all just hits and I begin to cry and say “why?” and “what the fuck?”, which I don’t get around to answering, mainly because I do not know the answer. And all this could be a reaction to knowing you have moved on and perhaps even had physical interaction with other people. That is fine, it is not my business, and I have too so it would be hypocritical. But it’s odd that that was the moment I realized the relationship had ended. The actual ending did not impact me as much other than one of those quick breakdowns, but realizing there may be no going back, that hit me the hardest. All weekend this has been in my mind, hence the longer rant on it, but what has been in my mind the most has been the ups of what we had, the moments you made me genuinely happy, the times I felt I could be myself around you, my real self, the one I hide almost always; that self came out around you. I feel a weight, and I don’t know what to do. I have someone I have been talking to but as it goes on I can see myself slipping into routine, a routine that was not developed when I met her, nor when I met you, but both relationships have their routine. Do I really hate the routine? I mean, right now I’m basically clamoring for the routine with you to return, why? And routine just leads to lack of fulfillment, which leads to a mutual breakup, hence ours. I am failing to see what I want, and this whole routine discussion blurs that line even further. I’ve thought about openly sharing my thoughts on what went wrong, or times I could have been better, but that fails to accomplish anything besides relief that it is off my chest, and when that is all I got left of that relationship, I want it on my chest. You were better at explaining what was going wrong, I was always quiet, and in most cases it was blindness, not silence. I was not quiet because I didn’t want to assert a grievance, I was because I did not even see the grievance existed. For what it is worth, and to just get it out there because nobody will read this rant fest that at this point has gone on for too long (reminds me of that Drake and Josh where he yells at the harp player to stop playing, but I digress), I want to write that absence has indeed made the heart grow fonder. I look at the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind: I mean just read that sentence. It’s equal to the notion that ignorance is bliss. I wish I had an empty mind, moreover I wish you did. What if we met up for the first time post-educational pursuits. We both are working in the jobs we set out to work in, and we both have had experiences with different people. The absence of purity does not drive me away. I have been searching for an answer and to think I may have overlooked it has caused this rant (along with other things). Last thing I have to say is that you and I were special, and I don’t even know if I should be in a relationship, that’s how messed up I am. 

I am. But why? Why am I? I have been questioning my existence for a long time. I had many nights when I was young where I cried myself to sleep trying to grasp the concept of forever, or trying to understand the afterlife, or searching for my purpose in life. This was at like, 10 years old, and I don’t say that in an attempt to sound impressive, I say that to display how frazzled my brain has always been. The materialistic knowledge like quotes from movies, or which team won three weeks ago, or how to correctly use grammar, they all feel so pointless to me when I enter the realm of discovering my existence. At the beginning of this year I told myself to decide on my stance on religion. I stood as an agnostic, but felt that was a cop out. I later sat down and truly thought about where my religious beliefs lie. In one case, there’s science. I love science because it is purely facts, but this is also why I hate science. I love English because everything is (I am really sorry for this pun) an open book, but that is also why I question my love for English. When deciding on arguments, I lean towards the facts, but the movies and books that interest me the most are the ones with numerous interpretations. I guess my love for interpretations lies with knowing how a certain aspect of one’s life coincides with the material they’re experiencing. I hate to bring this back to my breakup with my only real relationship, but after that I watched one film and read one poem, and they both changed my thought process on relationships momentarily. The film was Annie Hall, and the poem was I cannot live with You by Emily Dickinson. Annie Hall has a few quotes that scream into my ear as important and noteworthy, one being about how we make things perfect in art because they aren’t that way in reality. Another was a joke Allen told about two ladies sitting in a restaurant, one complaining about the quality of the food, the other complaining there wasn’t enough of it. Allen relates this back to life, noting that life is exactly that: shitty and over too quickly. His other two quotes are one that states they would never join a club that would accept them as a member, and a joke about a boy complaining that his brother has gone crazy and thinks he is a chicken, and when the doctor says turn him in, the boy responds that he would, but he needs the eggs. Allen relates both of these to relationships, saying why should he date anyone who would date his crazy ass, and relationships are a mess, but we deal with it because we “need the eggs”. That’s where I stand, I don’t think I should date because I often have these random cravings for solitude, but prolonged solitude concludes with loneliness and self-deprecation. If it wasn’t clear, I am currently in this prolonged state. The Dickinson poem goes into the eventual downfall of every relationship, and no matter how strong the relationship, if we include afterlife, no relationships will truly be together forever. Think about all the widows out there who cry over the loss of their “true love” only to marry again a year later. Dickinson seems to be striking this note. She notes that she is so aware of her life that adding another vessel to her conscious means knowing there is an eventual downfall, whether it is she is broken up with, she does the breaking up, her SO dies, or her own demise surfaces. No matter the ending, there is heartbreak. I once was talking to a girl (before I had my first real relationship), and for some reason with this girl I knew things would not pan out well. She liked me, and I had moderate feelings for her, and anyone else would pursue these feelings and test the metaphorical waters, but I opted out and went with brutal honesty. I no longer talk to this girl, of course. Anyway, I was talking about God. Ah yes, fact vs interpretation. See, I think there may be a force we cannot describe that in some ways controls how our lives pan out. I don’t think this is a Westworld situation where we are all predetermined androids, but I think there is a possibility that fate, karma, destiny, miracles, God, Jesus (yes, I know people say he was a real person, but fact of the matter is he is the result of a centuries-long telephone game. Sure, he could have existed, but was he really the son of God? Was he really this “almighty” force that died for our sins? What does that even mean? He died so I could say fuck and the apologize for it later?), I think all of these forces that appear mythical and wondrous, these forces we cannot even explain the origins of and instead just say “it was God” because we have a tendency to humanize everything that has the potential to be, I think these forces COULD all be one force. The ignorance and hubris of humans to believe God is an anthropomorphic invisible force is ridiculous, hence why I reject Christianity and the belief in God, but I am open to the belief in a force that has a say in our destinies. However, it rejects the facts. The facts are planets can be made from spacial activity, and life can and WAS created spontaneously through chemical reactions and evolution. Knowing how small of a piece I am in this puzzle is the only thing that gives me any morsel of confidence when I need it. Humans are barely even a scratch on the surface of Earth’s history, and my personal life is not even worthy of being called a nick, a tap, or even a breath. What I just said, and everything I have and will ever say, means so much to me and my life, but means absolutely nothing in the grand picture of life. I will not change the world. We are overpopulated with people, and I am simply another body in that crowd. Even celebrities and famous scientists or entrepreneurs are barely a mark on the history of life. There is no man other than Jesus who, in the grand timeline of life, would get specific recognition for their achievements, and like I said who even knows if Jesus did all that sin dying bullshit. The reason I bring up fate is because I feel like all my life has had a slight dictation, as if I silently beg for something to get thrown my way and then blam, there it is. I may just have luck, but fuck that, throw luck in with the rest of them. I want to name this force, and I won’t be a cheesy nerd and opt for “The Force”, especially because that’s just midichlorians, but I think a fitting name would be one we have already mustered: fate. I think fate fits perfectly because miracles, destiny, luck, karma, they are all acts of fate, they are all under the notion that what is intended to transpire will. God and Jesus are ways to humanize fate, but I reject that humanization because human are not important enough to be in control of everything, and I believe this force has been around forever and caused the birth of humans, so why would it be human if it was around before humans? It isn’t, that’s my point. My semi-belief in fate also points to my realization that often I tend to slightly stray from my comfort zones, only to find I am back in them later down the road. I see this with other people too, and I theorize that no matter how hard we try, many of our conquests will now pan out because they do not fit our comfort zones. This could be why I feel like I should go back to my old relationship, but also makes me realize these comfort zones are not a negative per se. We all strive to be comfortable, and yes challenges are good but there is a balance there that this past relationship seemed to meet the requirements of. I don’t know, I am so fucking lost and I understand I have the right to be at my age but that doesn’t dampen my fear. I am not old, I age in a month but hey, I’ll still be 1/4 of the age I assume I will meet my demise. there is still 75% of my life left to live (hopefully), so I am of course not suicidal, in fact it would be stupid for me to kill myself considering I am still trying to understand life; the solution to that problem would not be leaving life. I have met many people, some have made bigger marks on my life than others, and I don’t quite know whether I should accept things as journeys, or hold onto things like rewards, but I am sure that I will continue to try to figure this out, to figure life out. I know I need purpose, I know I need to figure out what all this is for (piiiinch me). I am beating myself up right now because I keep thinking of happier times. When I was younger, I used to cry after having an amazing day, because I feared I would never be that happy again, and because I realized I will never have that exact experience again and my love for it was so strong that not having that experience again made me cry. I cried a lot when I was younger, and I barely do now, but like I mentioned I have twice over this weekend, and a few times in the not too distant future. It could be stress, it could be fear, it could be loneliness, I have no idea. All I know is when I cry I feel like a coward because I often cry when I am avoiding expressing my true emotions. I see myself and my life as one giant chicken, but at the end of the day, I need the eggs.

[liasfinalportfolio]

The Reading Profile Draft #2

It seems like I enjoyed reading the essays more than I initially thought. I seem to frequently question what type of reading I like. On almost all essay responses I mentioned point of view: wondering which is the best one, which do I enjoy the most.  

The conclusion -something I came up with at the very last response- is that no point of view is my favourite. The writing style of the author is what makes a piece enjoyable for me, not the point of view.

Writing style. I never mentioned it, but as mad as it may sound, I actually wasn’t sure a writing style existed.

Now it seems so obvious, but a couple months ago the idea of a writing style was a foreign concept on my mind.

I knew art styles, however while I believed different feelings could be expressed through writing, the styles (depending on the point of view) where practically the same.

If I am being perfectly honest, I am not aware why I thought that at all. It all seems so clear now, so many books I have read in the past are drastically different. Lemony Snicket’s ‘A Series of Unfortunate Events’ for example, is drastically different that, say Douglas Adams’ ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’ (both favourites).

The fact I just didn’t think there was a difference absolutely baffles me.

When I first started with the first essay ‘Eat, Memory: Orange Crush’ I didn’t find anything surprising, or complicated. The way it was written was not amiss to my usual non-fiction reading material. I could relate to the feelings of shame the author, YiYun Li,  had while she was younger, and her situation was similar enough for me to feel a sort of kinship.

The next essay I read was ‘Street Haunting’ by Virginia Woolf. Here I had a small retalisation on the wonders of writing. The essay was written on 1930, and it almost felt like a form of time travel, being on the shoes of someone from the past for a short while.

I came to realize the writing style of Woolf in this particular essay, almost felt like a song. It was poetic and illustrative, something I noticed I enjoy reading.  However lovely it may be though, I did get confused at times, the many metaphors forcing me to read a couple paragraphs more than once.

I made it clear that I like straightforward, first person books, however I also enjoy reading other things, such as the nonsensical style authors such as Douglas Adams and Lewis Carroll seem to enjoy.

Another type of writing I am fond of are the fan-made works you can find online. Things such as theories, what-if scenarios (especially if they turn on a giant story) politics on non-political works of fiction (ie. Harry Potter) and more.

In regards to ‘Seeing’ I once more felt the writing style seemed like a song, a poem or a rhyme. In my original response I wrote Dillard somehow managed to paint a beautiful picture in my mind. Which made me wonder if the fact I relate beautiful writing with songs and paintings, has something to do with the fact those two (music and art) are the fields I lean towards the most.

Beauty in words is a thing, but although you can read the words, I feels like it probably isn’t a visual kind of beauty. More conceptual and abstract perhaps.

Song lyrics can be that way as well, but usually they’re joined by a melody which gives you an emotion to feel.

Art such as paintings and drawings on the other hand, are a different type of beauty, a visual one. It’s the same with a very beautiful person (Marina Diamandis and a young Winona Ryder comes to mind), a beautiful place full of nature or a particularly adorable young animal. Just looking at them, at the beauty that someone (either God or an artist. Although it can be said God is an artist) created. When even the imperfections look fitting, the thing you’re admiring just looks so perfect and beautiful that you get pleasure (not the sexual kind, but rather the fulfilling one) just from looking at them.

I’ve realized I’ve gone off on a tangent. I could keep talking about beauty in all its forms, what it truly is, and if it’s even real for ages, however that wasn’t what was (unintentional alliteration) asked from me so I digress.  

The next essay was ‘Knoxville’. It probably was my least favourite essay, not because it was badly written, or anything similar, but rather because it made it quite easy for me to get lost. Although I really enjoyed certain scenes, this one in particular:

The noise of the locust is dry, and it seems not to be rasped or vibrated but urged from him as if through a small orifice by a breath that can never give out. Also there is never one locust but an illusion of at least a thousand. The noise of each locust is pitched in some classic locust range out of which none of them varies more than two full tones: and yet you seem to hear each locust discrete from all the rest, and there is a long, slow, pulse in their noise, like the scarcely defined arch of a long and high set bridge. They are all around in every tree, so that the noise seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, from the whole shell heaven, shivering in your flesh and teasing your eardrums, the boldest of all the sounds of night.

After reading ‘Knoxville’, I thought that perhaps I just understood essays written by females better (one of my weirdest theories if I’m completely honest) but the next essay (Joyas Voladoras) proved that theory completely wrong.

It is more than a bit obvious that I enjoyed this one the most. Perhaps it was the fact I could listen while I read, it made focusing on the words an obligation, unless I wanted the recording to get ahead of me.

While it probably wasn’t the shortest, it definitely was the one I read the quickest, again hearing the words she read spoken making it easier to understand and stay on track.

I now wish everything could be both heard and read at the same time. Using two of my senses made everything so much easier, and it is not only on written media. When I’m watching videos I also tend to turn captions on, they make everything much easier to understand.

What I probably enjoyed the most, is probably that it seemed like a mixture of things; between animal facts, the author’s opinion and the slightly philosophical questioning, the essay was a very delightful read. The fact that he compared the hummingbird’s heart beats and the blue whales, something I’ve done before, albeit with different animals, just made it much better.

All in all, reading all this essays has been a learning experience. I’ve learned a lot about writing, and myself. One of the things I noticed, was that I tend to get distracted every few minutes if I’m not really focused in what I’m writing. Using the Pomodoro technique has been a huge help.

Music helps too, depending on my mood and the kind of music. As I write this, I’m listening to music and yet it hasn’t really distracted me like other times.

I hope with this I might be able, if not fix my problems, at least make them less potent.