Dirt-worshipper

more french class or ode to eating your words

dirtworshipper — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 03:16:54 +0000

‘Tis the end of the semester & I am studying for my French final. I actually sound fairly decent at least in my own head as I pronounce my conjugation of the verb “to do” (faire) while Billie Holiday sings to me from the bedroom clock radio permanently tuned to NPR. When I break from my studies I have fun practicing my French voice on my husband by announcing what he is doing (properly conjugating, of course) as I pass him on the way to the kitchen or la salle de bain (sounds better than bathroom, doesn’t it).

A major essence of French pronounciation I’ve rathered enjoyed adjusting to is the way one literally eats the ends of practically every word. 98% of the time the last letter of every word is silent whether it ends in a consonant or vowel making the second to last letter the one you hear. It’s quite weird and makes for a lot of memorization, but in my own oddball way, I’ve enjoyed this mild torture to my brain. It’s a new and different mental exercise. Far out, homme…

french class

dirtworshipper — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 13:40:01 +0000

In the past few years, I’ve been taking classes that require a lot of reading and writing; literature and philosophy mainly. This semester, however, I find myself in a completely different type of class: Elementary French I. It’s proving to be quite the interesting experience.

My classes leave me excited in my heart and mind, but exhausted in the face. For over two and a half hours every week I’m forming shapes with my mouth that until now have been completely unfamiliar to my facial muscles. Now, I’m not totally unfamiliar with foreign languages. I’ve spoken Polish since I can remember. In fact, it was actually the first language I learned. My mother has told me that as early as three years old, I was able change from speaking Polish to speaking English without missing a syllable, and I knew who would understand which language. I also took Spanish for two years in middle and high school and received “A”s.

One would like to think that prior foreign language experience would be a benefit to learning yet another language. Well…yes and no…

Speaking both Polish and Spanish, I can roll my “r”s with the best of ‘em. It wasn’t until I met my husband who never took a foreign language lession in his life to discover that this rolling talent is not possessed by one and all. Now, this fabulous skill is proving to be a small obstacle to my tongue when learning the French “r”. Totally different concept for my whole mouth. To acquire the correct sound of the French “r” I have to produce a noise that’s a cross between a grunt and a gargle. As I practice this sound, I’ve come to realize that when Americans are trying to impersonate (and make fun of, which we Americans do so well when facing something different than ourselves) a stereotypical French speaking person, it’s this precise grunt/gargle sound that makes up the caricature. The other sound I seem to have an issue with is the French “e”. The best way I can remember how to pronounce this vowel is to pretend that I can’t think of anything to say. In other words, uhhhhhh………

French is a gorgeous sounding language, when you’re pronouncing it correctly. Now that I’ve started to get over the above obstacles I’m facing new sound challenges as letter combos come into play. What fun. But seriously, I am truly enjoying this class even if my facials muscles are cursing me out. And as I become better at pronunciation, I must admit that I feel quite cultured if not a bit pretentious.

The insightful mysterious stranger

dirtworshipper — Sat, 22 Sep 2007 11:42:39 +0000

Floating in our boat on the last Sunday of summer, Joe and I are sitting across from each other reading. I’m reading the last chapter of Mark Twain’s The Mysterious Stranger. We’ve been slowly floating back to shore, faster than either of us expected. Joe interrupts my reading to bring my attention to the fact that I need to grab the oars and take us back out a little before we end up hitting the shoreline. (When we first acquired this boat, I made the mistake of showing Joe how efficient I am at rowing, so guess who’s in charge of it regularly now.) I toss my book at him so he can read aloud to me the last paragraph of the entire story while I slave away:

…”It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream–a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought–a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!”

He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realized, that all he had said was true.

Trust me, I haven’t ruined this great story by revealing the last lines. In fact, I would like to believe that I’ve sparked interest in reading the whole story if only to see what formed this conclusion. In fact, I have another way to intrigue you into reading this story. Check out this great claymation video I found when I did a search for any literary interpretations. It’s right out of the first chapter:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqi5F5MqqTQ

Now, I haven’t attempted to read Mark Twain since I was a very sorry student during my first attempt at college many years ago while failing an American Lit class. I had much shallower things on my mind at that time and couldn’t grasp the depth of insight within Twain’s writing. He was a master at making fun of the human race while bringing to light some powerful messages, many with quite a political twist. Like Shakespeare, his writing can be interpreted into many different time periods and still remain extraordinarily relevent.

The main character is Satan. Or that is, Satan’s nephew who is also called Satan. He comes to visit earth during end of the 16th century and befriends three teenage boys in Austria. Throughout their friendship he reveals truths about human nature that we as the simple creatures that we are, (which Satan consistantly finds quite amusing if not endearing at times) are too inept to ever see ourselves.

During one such revealing experience, the boys and Satan witness a young woman being accused of witchcraft. These boys, even though they felt sorry for this woman, join the crowd of accusers by throwing a stone at her body after she was hung. Later, after leaving this scene, Satan is laughing at the boy’s natures. Asked by the boys to explain his thoughts, Satan replies:

“…I know your race. It is made up of sheep. It is governed by minorities, seldom or never by majorities. It suppresses its feelings and its beliefs and follows the handful that makes the most noise. Sometimes the noisy handful is right, sometimes wrong; but no matter, the crowd follows it. The vast majority of the race, whether savage or civilized, are secretly kind-hearted and shrink from inflicting pain, but in the presence of the aggressive and pitiless minority they don’t dare to assert themselves…”

The boys, not liking their race being called sheep, try to convince Satan that it is not so. But Satan continues:

“Still, it is true, lamb…Look at you in war—what mutton you are…There has never been a just one, never an honorable one—on the part of the instigator of the war…The loud handful–as usual–will shout for the war. The pulpit will—warily and cautiously—object—at first; the great, big, dull bulk of the nation will rub its sleepy eyes and try to make out why there should be a war, and will say, earnestly and indignantly, ‘It is unjust and dishonorable, and there is no necessity for it.’ Then the handful will shout louder. A few fair men on the other side will argue and reason against the war with speech and pen, and at first will have a hearing and be applauded; but it will not last long; those others will outshout them, and presently the anti-war audiences will thin out and lose popularity. Before long you will see this curious thing: the speakers stoned from the platform, and free speech strangled by hordes of furious men who in their secret hearts are still at one with those stoned speakers—as earlier—but do not dare to say so. And now the whole nation—pulpit and all—will take up the war-cry, and shout itself hoarse, and mob any honest man who ventures to open his mouth; and presently such mouths will cease to open. Next the statemen will invent cheap lies, putting blame upon the nation that is attacked, and every man will be glad of those conscience-soothing falsities, and will diligently study them, and refuse to examine any refutations of them; and thus he will by and by convince himself that the war is just, and will thank God for the better sleep he enjoys after this process of grotesque self-deception.”

Is it me, or is this speech from Satan eerily relevant to the state of our own nation’s voice today and this war we seem to think we have every right to be involved in?!

Mr. Samuel Langhorne Clemens, aka Mark Twain of course, was an extremely intelligent and insightful man. Many of our modern “leaders” could greatly benefit from reading his works.

The honorable murder

dirtworshipper — Thu, 16 Aug 2007 11:07:09 +0000

Although the play is written as a farce as many of his comedies are, Shakespeare opens A Midsummer Night’s Dream with a rather serious situation. It’s not meant to be focused on, but my mind can’t help seeing a parallel to our modern society. In the very first scene, Theseus and Hippolyta have their conversation about their upcoming wedding interrupted by the entrance of Egeus with his daughter Hermia and her two suitors. Egeus wants Thesus to allow him to exercise his right over his “property” and make Hermia marry Demetrius (dad’s choice) or have her killed. “Be it so she will not here before your grace/Consent to marry with Demetrius,/I beg the ancient privilege of Athens./As she is mine, I may dispose of her–/Which shall be either to this gentleman/Or to her death—according to our law” (Act I, scene 1, lines 39 – 44).

Now of course, this play is a work of fiction and daddy-o is quite flippant here about the possible death of his daughter. But this fictitious character brings up the very real fact about the existence of honor killing. As much as we humans like to think we’re living in “civilized” societies, our very real, modern world lays witness to about 5,000 honor killings annually according to The United Nations Population Fund. These murder victims are almost exclusively women who are perceived to have brought “dishonor” to their families. A father, brother or husband can simply suspect his daughter, sister or wife of being dishonorable and their society allows them and quite often celebrates their “right” to kill her. This is sick.

Around April 7^th of this year, a 17 year old girl named Du’a Khalil Aswad was stoned to death in Iraq for allegedly converting to Islam to marry an Iraqi Sunni Muslim boy. While it was disputed whether or not she actually converted, the very allegation was enough to warrant an attack on her life and for thirty minutes she was pummeled by large rocks and concrete by a mob of men (which included her own relatives) while armed police stood by and did nothing. No one came to her aid and this celebrated murder was even filmed on camera phones and distributed on the Internet.

Even sicker, because these killings are considered “private family matters” the perpetrators are rarely prosecuted. Nothing like enabling violence against women.

sugarysex

dirtworshipper — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 11:49:31 +0000

The olfactory system we humans possess constantly fascinates me. I’ll never know this for fact, but I’ve held the belief since I was a kid that my personal nasal nerves hold the kind of strength that not everyone possesses. The slightest wisp of any essence can produce in my brain the most fantastic visions and stir up some incredible memories. Some scents make me melt and feel I can linger there and be safe forever. The way the skin on my husband’s neck smells is one of them. Another would have to be the aroma that wafts from my infant niece’s head.

Summer produces some of the most marvelous if not sensual scents. I can smell honey when I pass an area thick with wildflowers, in particular clover and milkweed. I also love the way one’s body smells after being out in the sun covered with suntan lotion. But the best scents of this season are the sugary, sexy, almost erotic smells of summer fruit. Walk into a summer fruit stand and tell me you don’t get aroused by the smell. Sugar in heat. Last night I was prepping cherries and plums for a fabulous chilled soup I’ve been making the past couple of summers and nearly got high when I opened up the bag of plums. I brought the bag over to my husband in the other room, placed it under his face and said something to the effect: “Stick your face in that and tell me it doesn’t smell like hot, sticky, summer sex.” He agreed…

Fighting with yourself

dirtworshipper — Tue, 26 Jun 2007 11:41:13 +0000

Do you ever wonder what your brain and body may be doing when you’re sleeping? Most of us enjoy the comforting feeling that we’re in our safe zone when actually we’re at our most vulnerable. Paranoid yet? Well, when your sleep patterns are regularly messed with you certainly can start to feel like a transformed creature. Creep yourself out with this idea while reading Chuck Paluhniak’s novel Fight Club. He writes:

…If I could wake up in a different place, at a different time, could I wake up as a different person?

…You wake up, and you’re nowhere.

One minute was enough, Tyler said, a person had to work hard for it, but a minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.

You wake up, and that’s enough…

During my recent trip to Iceland, I experienced days with no nights. It’s midnight, and your brain believes it’s midday…try telling it otherwise as bright sunlight keeps your pupils from dilating. Let’s just stay up all night, shall we?

Summer plans

dirtworshipper — Sun, 10 Jun 2007 11:54:59 +0000

Leaving for Europe tomorrow for two weeks…still reading Fight Club.

Summer Shakespeare plans: Antony and Cleopatra and Hamlet…I think I hear my friend Steve groaning at that last one…tell me Steve, why is Hamlet your least favorite Shakespeare play as the rumor goes?

I’ll be back in two weeks…see ya!

Haunted…sick & twisted “real” people…

dirtworshipper — Mon, 28 May 2007 11:31:43 +0000

…The difference between how you look and how you see yourself is enough to kill most people. And maybe the reason vampires don’t die is because they can never see themselves in photographs or mirrors…This is one my favorite lines from a short story titled Post-Production by Chuck Palahniuk. It is framed within Palahniuk’s novel Haunted along with 22 other stories. The novel itself reminds me a bit (in its own sick and twisted way) of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Twenty-three strangers (and self-proclaimed writers) find themselves stuck if not completely trapped together, self-absorbed egoes and all, in a delapitated old theatre building. They have come together under the pretext of a writer’s retreat. Each is to abandon their lives for three months so that the masterpiece within them can emerge without distraction. It seems however, that everyone’s own worst enemy, that goes by the name of ego, will in due time kill everyone off. And the one left standing, if any, will be the hero in the movie version of the story that will be told by this survivor. To either pass the time, or to give people small windows of opportunity to sabatoge each other, one by one these “authors” spin their own tales each one outdoing the last. With every story I read, I felt as if I was reading stories spun off from the based-on-real-life column News of the Weird. Then I find out that among Palahniuk’s writing accomplishments he is also the author of the nonfiction collection Stranger Than Fiction…that figures. So far, I’ve read stories of self-mutilating mastrubation, massage-therapist assassins, and wealthy folks who disguise themselves as homeless for kicks and escape from the public eye to name a few. I’m thinking the word that describes the thread that connects these stories would have to be INTEGRITY. Just what is your integrity worth?

I will be putting this book down temporarily though. I just received through inter-library loan the Palahniuk novel I originally went into my public library for which is titled Fight Club. Yes, it is the book the movie of the same title is based on. Years ago, after viewing the film, I thought to myself, “I’d love to write a story like that.” Well, I’m finally going to read it, and from the looks of the stories in Haunted, I don’t believe I’ll be disappointed. Stay tuned for news on that progression…

Royal pains in the arse, the medieval way

dirtworshipper — Thu, 26 Apr 2007 11:18:50 +0000

The Tempest opens with a scene that is more revealing than it appears at first. We are immediately shown the difference in personalities between the upper and lower classes. The “lower” or working class is definitely better at being efficient and able to think on their feet especially when facing dangerous situations. The upper class always seem to be coming from their egoes consistently putting down the lower class while actually getting in the way and causing much of the inefficiency that they later will use to belittle the lower class. The lower class prove themselves more intelligent as they demonstrate their ability to see the bigger and deeper picture of everything surrounding them while the upper classes remain blinded by their own inferiority complexes. The uppers are so preoccupied with themselves and their own voices they can’t hear anyone but themselves. The nasty Antonio asks the Boatswain: “Where is the Master, Boson?” Boatswain: “Do you not hear him? You mar our labor. Keep your cabins–you do assist the storm.” (Act I, sc. 1, lines 12 -14) The boatswain realistically tells the uppers that the storm doesn’t give a damn who is on the ship, and right now, they’re assisting it’s destructive power. Yet the nobles simply insult him and come right back moments later just to spout off their own egoes. By the end, however, these bumbling noble schnooks are praying for their lives (and no one elses) as the efficient boatswain saves all their asses while swigging liquor with calm confidence. (my kinda guy!)

Death to the mind sucking device

dirtworshipper — Fri, 20 Apr 2007 11:37:12 +0000

Coming up this week, April 23rd – 29th is National TV turn-off week. Novel concept, isn’t it? A bit scary to some, I’m sure. I’m actually quite excited about it. For me, it’ll be a bit of an intellectual exercise. Funny how one can sit down to watch just one program, then, three hours later or more, you’ve been sucked in, your brains have been sucked out, and your ass is getting wider and flabbier with every photon you absorb. And that’s just with basic tv. Years ago, living in our first apartment together, my husband and I had basic cable. Our remote control had a label I attached that read “mind-sucking-device”. After moving from there, we never had cable hooked up again and have been living with 6 free channels (2 of which are PBS), and I still feel I watch too much. And the news media…the fact that I know as much as I do about Anna Nicole Simpson or Paris Whats-her-name is a crying shame. ”WHAT?!”, “That’s news?!” and ”Who the fuck cares?” is what I’m usually yelling at the tv during these “quality” news programs. Not the mention the pathetic fact that our media mobilizes the people of this country with fear.

So, does the concept of turning off that damn device for an entire week strike the deepest of fears within your soul? Perhaps you’re afraid to discover how dependant you are on tv to think for you. For all of us. Shit, without tv, we’ll be forced to think for ourselves!! Can we do it?! Do we know how?!

Read a book, take a walk and enjoy the spring sunshine, actually talk to your family during dinner…so tune out…tune in to what’s around you…and KILL YOUR TELEVISION!

Check out more facts about our atrocious tv habits at www.tvturnoff.org