Coming Clean?

Hilary Duff Sings Songs About This

©Rachel C

Surprisingly, this move back—from Oklahoma to Chicago to Oklahoma once again—is letting me examine myself in a way I never have, a way I never thought possible. Before this past month, I thought I knew who I was, I thought I knew myself; but, then again I was the one who said “I’m my own best friend, and even I don’t know myself that well”. Maybe I thought I never could, that that level of personal understanding was the work of fiction, some fantasy created in the head of a writer more confused than I was. But after some time seeing how things can change, how quickly life can bounce from Rock Bottom to High-as-the-Sky and back to Rock Bottom again, I am starting to see parts of my personality and my abilities that where hidden under a mask of disbelief. I am starting to uncover colors I never realize where visible to the human eye. It’s strange, how standing in the downpour of humility and redemption can shed away the black and white, can shed away the familiarity, can bring to light dark and scary places and transform them into something bright, something shiny.

January 29, 2007
Author's Note: it's a series people....

Neatly Tucked Beneath the Spotlight

Third Person Objective

©Rachel C

Objectivity was my goal, but I think I’ve failed. I don’t know that I can ever be truly objective, because I am in this. I am in it, in it so deep and so thoroughly that any objectiveness I can manage is bias and cold. In my head it feels like everyday is a new way to look at the world differently, everyday I have a stark narrative, a voice that not only observes how I am responding to situations in my way, but is also narrating the scene as I want to remember it—for literary reasons. I have a running narrative, telling my mind how to remember certain moments in time, so that later I can dictate them accurately and eloquently as I type them into a novel. Part of me thinks it’s sick; the rest: something so unique more people should notice and appreciate. For the rest of me, it is as close to objectivity as I can get, and it’s a first person narrative, which doesn’t bode much for openness in the way the story is perceived. But, I had the feeling that seeing this situation objectively was going to be a difficult thing to wrap my mind around.
Part of me that has been denying forces like God and self conclusion is starting to turn. I used to be confused, when everything happened, when everything came down on a seemingly innocent child. I used to think that karma was a sick joke on me, sick joke on us all. Ever since early high school, even before the divorce, I questioned my belief. I always assumed what I’d been told was the truth, but part of me wanted to deny it while the rest wanted to believe it. My body was in conflict, and I felt almost without a god all the while I claimed to believe in God. I can’t much explain it, or describe it, and my eloquence is lost almost to the cliché of discussing God. And yes, it is all very cliché, or maybe it is all very Godly. Maybe we want to believe it’s cliché to feed the humanist ideals instilled in our minds to live on our own, to never give credit or ask for aide, and to survive in a world without God—because believing in something mightier than ourselves often implies believing there may be a plan already in place. We want to map, live, control, and complete our lives. We want to feel whole without holy influence. But, most importantly we don’t want to fulfill a cliché. We don’t want to admit that prayer works, even though, most likely, it’s only ever answered because we find a way to resolve it ourselves. We don’t want to give in to the idea of God because God is no one we can influence, no one we can tame; and our worldly manipulations are too little to sway Him.
Looking back at this past month, or more wholly, this past half-year, I’m seeing things fall into place in a way I never could as I was living them. When my father left the first time, or maybe even as late as the fifth time, I resolved to write a book, an analysis, of the behavior I observed and conducted. I watched, listened, remembered all I could of the arguments and aggravations, trying to stockpile it all in my memory for a later time to write it all down. It became overwhelming, and I decided to step back, determined to breathe in and let the air settle before taking up the task again. I needed to let my mind rest. I needed to let the memories sit and stew; I needed to give it time enough that, when I came back to the story, I could look at it objectively, from every angle, and write honestly as one sees from the future looking back instead of the past looking forward. And then, sometime this past year, more happened than I’d resolved to remember, and I rethought my strategy.
Overall, I haven’t begun to pen that novel, or analysis, but I am beginning to see for certain the effect of stepping back, the advantage and insight of looking from the future’s perspective. I’m seeing that, if I had never gone to Chicago, I wouldn’t know who it is I want to be; and if I had never taken the step back and packed my bags, I would never see the person I am capable of becoming. It seems to me that there was something in the works before I knew what I was doing, there was something in the making, a plan I wasn’t aware of. And that side of me that wanted so bad to find assurance in science, just so I would never become another cliché, is starting to step in the direction of understanding—that the little voice inside of me, the one that comes from my gut, may just very well be the kind of instinct to believe in. Whether or not what I am seeing unravel is the work of a great and powerful God, or just the insight of a trained writer, doesn’t seem to matter anymore. As long as I continue to feel as if I am doing something right, that somebody out there approves, I think I have an immense possibility of someday being happy.
Seeing the way my life has unfolded, truly looking back from a different point of view does something for me I have never imagined. I can see clearly the irony I predicted, or the symbolism I suggested was important at the time. I can see that, as I lived it, I understood it on some level, the narrative in my mind picking out the literary devices I would someday use; and I can see that, as I look back, exactly how to use them, and exactly how inspiring it is at all to see that they happened in my life and aren’t just fantastical works of fiction. The day I said it poured, it rained and rained; how it kept falling from the sky for days after I arrived in Oklahoma—all of that was real, and how very amazing it is to see. Writers create the rain, the sunsets, the metaphors and symbols to fit with their character’s mood. My metaphors, my similes, my symbols were already in place, the moment I was living them, tailored to fit my mood. I didn’t make the rain this time, and it’s so much cooler that way.
Objectivity is a bitch, but I am starting to think it’s possible, even for a crazy like me. My friend, she wanted it in that moment, the way it happens in the movies. The movies are fictitious; in real life the objectiveness kicks in much later than you can predict.

January 28, 2007
Author's Note: you know the one.

Hold Your Breath When People Pass By

Until Then, You're Waiting for Someone to Love

©Rachel C

The weather is changing, back and forth. Yesterday it was warm enough to throw on a light jacket and take the dog for a walk. Today, when I stepped outside, I anticipated the cold was due to the pre-sunrise darkness, but the chill lasted all day. Now as I run outside, my feet frozen from the cold, January moisture left like heavy dew on the grass, I can’t help but pray that days like this will last and last.
I remember once writing a poem about this weather. Actually, I think that is a bit of an understatement—I think I have written several poems about this weather. The chill, the way my breath hangs in the air, how the moon takes a pure-as-milk color and the star’s dazzle closer than I can remember seeing them. There is so much to explain, to describe; so much that I find enchanting each time I step out into the January night.
Tonight the sound of wind chimes rustle in the close distance, a weary wind nudging at them in an eerie way. Honestly, I love it. That distant discomfort, that something might be lurking in the unknown shadows; the idea thrills me, makes me smile, even though I know if I were to stumble upon some mysterious cause deep in the night I would be frightened half-to-death. Maybe that idea, in itself, is alluring. Terrified to no means by something I can’t explain. It certainly is, in itself, frightening. But, nevertheless, the sound of distant wind chimes in the wake of a chilled and subtle gust makes me ponder the possibilities, and all the ways to describe the feeling.
I guess it’s a simple explanation to why so much of my poetry revolves around the month of January and the cold that hangs in the air throughout the month—lighter than the depressed chills of February, ghostlier than the joyous snows of December. I have said, since I was fifteen—and very important year—that the twenty-sixth of January is my favorite day. And, to be less than eloquent, I don’t know exactly how I came to that conclusion. I think it all started with how lovely I believed the name sounded, as a title or a phrase. I think, at one point, I wrote a journal entry titled just that, because I couldn’t find something sarcastic to say in lieu of the day. And, though that does indeed still ring true—I would give anything I could find to deem worthy enough that very name—I think, mostly for me, it traces back to a moment in time, driving in a heavy snowfall, watching it billow down over the lane as rose petals would in the Spring. Nearly floating on air, passing between the trees, drifting across the road in a heavenly fashion. It truly was something I can never completely explain, something I will remember forever. Something I am certain will be penned over and over.
I wish, on days like this, when I can stand on the porch and see the stars for miles, that I could show them to you, or that you could have seen the snow stop as we passed by a tree and blow through the branches like rays of sunlight. I wish you could see things the way I see them, the way I smile at the strangest moments, and find humor in the most absurd things. Not because I want you to be like me, or to impress me, or even to predict me. Because I want for you to get me. I want for you to see beyond what’s been said and how I seemed. And I want for you to truly understand the person inside of me. The person who laughs at very silly things; the person who finds irony in the smallest corners; the person who notices details from across the room—and then feels ridiculous that no one understands the humor that she’s pointed out. I think that there is something beyond my layers of skin, my hard-to-read expressions, my knack for incongruity. And, I suppose, I think that you should notice, I think that you should find those things so very enchanting. And most of all, I want for you to see me, for all my imperfections; and see me smile at the memory of a snow drift that gave comfort in a very desolate year; and, say so very simply to yourself: she’s perfect, I love her, for everything she is. January 26 passed by this year without any conviction. Just another day in another year I’m determined to overcome. And yet every time I hear the date my heart skips a beat, I lose a breath, and I am reminded of wind chimes eerily in the distance, clouds of released air floating in the atmosphere, and a milky veil shrouding the silky moon. I am reminded of moments that allow me to smile while no one is looking, all the while I am thinking in my head: I wish someone could see me this way.

January 27, 2007
Author's Note: it's all just one giant narrative, isn't it?

Something Like Leaping...from a Single Story Building

Well, I did it. And by "it", I mean, I sent "Dematerializing Bonnie", "Listening", "Message in a Bottle", "Moments with China", "Toes", and "Wailing Wall" to the New Yorker. Do I think I will get published? Unlikely. It will take about three months max for them to get back to me about my submission. After that, I am going to try something less formal. I am allowed to send in two submissions a year, so, since they don't publish prose, I think next submission I will try for more personal, emotional poetry. Poetry that I assume isn't so great. The more formal poetry, the things I've sent in, I usually think those are my best. But, I know more often people want to read something a little more contemporary, and those six I sent are probably not all that modern at all. I don't know...I like them, I think they are my best, and I am taking a chance. I guess I will let the New Yorker decide.

As for prose, I think I have been writing some top-notch stuff lately, and there are a few pieces I am thinking of attempting to get published. Anyone know of any magazines that accept prose submissions and publish it? It would be helpful.

Otherwise: missed most of the State of the Union, and I am tired as hell. Busy day tomorrow, but I doubt my day today is finished. Also, right now, it is tomorrow. Damn.

We All Look Like We Feel

One Month Anniversaries are the Silliest Things to Celebrate

From What I've Seen, You're Just One More Hand-Me-Down
©Rachel C

Do you ever wonder if people just give up on love? I mean, literally, just give it up. Like giving up baseball or art, or giving up driving or giving up golf. Do you think people can love someone, something, but just let it go? They literally, despite loving it, despite caring how it is, how it deals with the sudden change, how it survives without them, do you think that people can just drop it like an old habit, one they think is time to quit? For some reason, that doesn’t seem illogical to me. For some reason, I can see someone doing that, living that way, knowing it’s wrong, it’s hard, but doing it anyway. I can see a man love a woman; I can see him realize there is a choice to make, and instead of choosing to make the relationship—whether or not it was working in the first place—he gives up on love and walks away. Maybe I can see that because my mother was given up on, my sister, my best friend, I was given up on. Maybe that is how you explain what has happened, maybe we were just pigeonholed, just let go.
As a writer, I feel like the concept works well for a plot, for a storyline, and a character. I guess because I have never been on the romantic side of a failed relationship, I can’t understand how wrong it is for that to actually happen. I can’t understand that, to be given up is to be broken up, to be broken in, and to be hurt. I don’t think I can understand that, even though I was broken in, pulled apart, left with holes where my father didn’t bother to suture his incisions. Because, my father gave up; he gave up and I can see how tormented my mother is, how broken my sister is, how numb I’ve been left.
Maybe I am wrong. Maybe what has happened wasn’t a man giving up on something he loved. Maybe the difference is that he never loved us, he never wanted us, and he is bitter all this time for taking one road instead of the other—taking the wife-and-kids expressway instead of the degree-and-career city street. So, I guess if that were the case, I guess if it’s not exactly giving up, I don’t understand anything at all....
When my parents first separated, I had a name for the way I felt. I felt like a hand-me-down, juggled between two people, treated like old news, no body really wanting me, but being forced to wear me for lack of anything new. A hand-me-down, and not even one shuffled through the same family. The kind you find at The Salvation Army or Good Will, the kind that has a strange scent from years in closets and boxes, the kind that went out-of-style and won’t come back in, the kind of stereotypical homeless people. That feeling, and the bitterness attached to it, sticks. Maybe unsuspectingly, but you feel trampled on one morning, or you smell ancient fabric the next; and everyday you thought you’d moved on, you find you’re less than one step closer—you’re barely out of the door. That feeling retraces its footprints through your heart, it makes your head hurt, your stomach ache. It makes you wonder if you belong. Honestly, you don’t. Hand-me-downs are old clothing: out-of-style, embarrassing to wear, cheap. Hand-me-downs belong in an aluminum trashcan, lid sealed tight.
I wished that I wouldn’t feel so lonely, the only hand-me-down in a closet full of brand new clothes—tags still attached. But, there was no place to go were I could be with others of my kind. There was no Salvation Army for adolescent hand-me-downs—at least not one I was willing to find. If I wanted a room full of used clothing, there was a price I had to pay. Rip a seam, get a stain, some sort of damage to be returned to the storefront with the other second hand fashions. But, I didn’t believe in slicing myself open, especially for attention, especially to feel comforted. I always figured having a hole would add a draft to my already cold interior. Ripping myself apart would just give me something new to cry over. So I was lonely, I was a lonely hand-me-down; no one understood the pain in being worn by more than one person, the fear in being thrown away, or the ache in hanging around waiting for someone to pick me off the self. Pick me up, shake me out, wash me off, and slip me over their warm body. There were some attempts, to give me a closet and a body to belong to, but, true to second hand nature, I found myself in the waste basket once again.
Hand-me-downs happen, I think, because the first time owner gives up on caring for the garment. They have worn out the fabric and are tired of washing, drying, folding, and hanging it. They are tired of maintaining it. So they go out and find a fresh piece. New, more appropriate for the changing times, and they use that as an excuse to pull the old one from its place in the closet and drop it in the trash. The good owners, the ones with big hearts, they give their used garments to stores that will discount the price and disregard the label and throw the thing in a bin to be rifled through. The ones to be feared in the world of hand-me-downs are the ones that give up entirely and don’t bother to pack the garment in a box. They mistake it for an old rag, use it to clean up their messes; or they just wad it into a ball and toss it to the garbage with food wrappers and used Kleenex. The feeling is the same, for the hand-me-downs. Used, abused, and disposed of. Trampled, stained, torn and tattered, tossed around like a cheap sock. Even if they eventually find somewhere to belong, it never lasts, not the way they would want to, and hand-me-downs become bitter. Hand-me-downs wall off, break away from the rest of the closet, and blame the world for the way they’ve been treated, for the way they feel.
It’s never really their fault, being tossed around and worn out, because, if it were up to hand-me-downs, they would remain in that first closet interminably, worn by that first body continually. Nothing feels so great as being picked for one person, because they like your colors, your style, the way you form to their body; nothing feels better than staying that way, form-fitting and snug, for the rest of forever with the original buyer. But, I also don’t think hand-me-downs are made resentful. I think that comes with time, with endless storefronts and never-ending buyers. I think it starts with anger toward the first to give them up, and as it happens more and more, the feeling grows and cynicism sets in. And it makes me wonder, for all those things given up despite the love and admiration they once received, if hand-me-downs are made in one moment, when that first owner drops them into the trash bag labeled “Good Will”. It makes me wonder if all it takes is that split second to question if that piece just isn’t worthy anymore. And then the hand-me-down is made, one quick moment and it’s just another item of everyday clothing—no longer that special article bought solely to make the owner feel extraordinary. If that first time, that first heart break, that first “give up” is all there is to creating a hand-me-down, than I worry that I am not actually alone. I worry that I am just one of many, one of many hand-me-down people, given up by that first love, that first chance, that first impression of what a man is supposed to be.
There is a small chance for a hand-me-down to find a permanent home on someone’s back, to no longer be second hand clothing. For the rest of us, I can’t help but wonder who will find us next; pick us up, shake us out, wash us off, and slip us on over their warm bodies, if only just to turn around and throw us away again, back on the shelf for another day. The future remains a mystery for the hand-me-downs in this world, never able to tell if that next shopper is the kind of person who gives up on love.

January 18, 2007
Author's Note: Just a number in a series of many. You know, when I said I was on to something, I think for once I was right. That's a good feeling, but it's also scary to admit. Gotta go with the good first, though, and try to hold off the fear.

Cold Feet

Don't believe in karma? Just look at global warming.

If anything proves karma in the right, it's global warming. I bet Al Gore would agree with me.

Because of global warming, the warm wind from the gulf has been heading dangerously north thus freezing in the Canadian air and turning south...and pelting Oklahoma, over and over, with ice...rain that is ice. And, because of this ice, I have missed two days of work and my Internet was out for about three days. And now? Well, now that air is turning it's bitter head toward us again and is preparing to drop six to seven inches of snow on our sorry, tornado-lovin' asses. Oh yes, global warming believes in karma. I am seriously about ready to give my Representative a letter. A long, long letter. Something like: Dear Congressman Sullivan, Stop being a bitchy conservative and denying global warming. It is people like you who make weather like this. Stop sitting on your ass and asking for more money for shit tiny towns in Oklahoma, that OKLAHOMANS haven't heard, of don't need. Spend that money on, say, snow plows, since you're too lazy to give a damn that we're fucking the world up and it's getting back at us. Seriously, stop fucking up and make some good decisions! Love, your constituent, Rachel C. That, I suppose, is me starting a revolution. Mostly because I believe in the power of letters and I can't get out of my drive way.

Was that ranty? Well, if it was it's the most I've done in a while, and frankly, I have no fucking clue what is going on in the world of socio-politics. I am so, so sad.

All I Can Do Is Shiver.

It Makes Me Cry When Lonely People Die

Nothing to Keep My Hands Warm

© Rachel C

This weekend, all it did was rain. It rained, rained straight down to the ground, heavy, thick, rain. The temperature dropped to below freezing, below zero, and the rain became ice as it plummeted. It gathered in the yard, on the branches of bare trees and bushes, on the sidewalks and streets. It piled to five inches, maybe six, and refuses to melt. My world is buried under half a foot of pure ice, and yet not crumbling under the pressure.
The cold reaches everywhere. Sitting in the living room is uncomfortable alone, but no one was alone this weekend. My sister came home, brought food, ready to sit it out with the comforts of a home she doesn’t so much consider home anymore. She brought her best friend, who has been a member of our family since before I was in high school. Wrapped in blankets in the living room, watching television shows now on DVD and movies we have seen more than a million times, they sat for a day straight, and I sat with them, glad to have the warmth of other bodies just feet away. Glad to no longer consider myself alone. At least I didn’t feel alone for a while. I didn’t feel alone, I didn’t seem alone, I didn’t think that I was. But, that is the humor with being alone on a deeper level than physical. Because I wasn’t physically alone, I could distract myself from how emotionally alone I feel when I see everyone I have spent this past month with—when I see everyone that I told myself I would prove wrong. I haven’t, I guess is what I am trying to say. I haven’t because I let them make me feel lonely, because I let them make me feel excluded, because I wake up bitter when I hear them in the next room, all the while I know I shouldn’t. But, I do, because they are not who I want them to be, and I am hardly who I know I can be.
That is such a...well, it’s a self-motivational thing to say, and for me to once again say it I feel redundant and dumb. Dumb because I know better, because I know I shouldn’t have to say it anymore. Dumb because I know it, and I would never believe myself anyway. Yet, here is the funny thing about feeling dumb or never believing it anyway: everyday this week, these past weeks, I have proven the dumb feeling wrong; I have proven my unwillingness to change just a misconception of my self-confidence. And of my capability. So, how dumb do I really feel now for saying it; for saying I can be better than who I am? For saying this isn’t who I am at all, but a façade built by the people around me, a barrier only they can break down? That is the silly talk, the dumbness indeed. I built this wall, yes I did; thus I tear it down, all on my own. And waking up bitter is just another sign that it’s been far too long; just another signal that I have kept myself on the wrong side of the wall for longer than I needed to.
When I felt secluded, I would make a joke; I would say I felt like I was on the wrong side of the Berlin Wall. We all know which side was the wrong side, which side I found myself on. Somehow I always felt like everyone who should have supported me had snuck to the West side, and I was barred. Named communist and kept out. Different, improper, inappropriate for democracy. But, isn’t that irony? Shouldn’t democracy have let me in anyway? Democracy was a hypocrite, and communism a façade; and the wall as just something to let us all distinguish between the two, even though we all knew they were somehow the same. It was a wall, an iron curtain, a sheet of ice to keep us apart so that we could never know just how alike we were; so that we could continue to argue and distract from the reality that all any of us wanted was to never feel alone. One of us, one of us didn’t understand that standing on the East side didn’t mean everyone else was wrong to stand on the West. She didn’t understand that, in order to be accepted, she had to find a sledgehammer and cross the barrier herself.
I think she does. Maybe it is a little too late. Communism fell, and democracy is on the spread; maybe it is a little too late to see beyond the sheet of ice.
I know who I am, if that isn’t too presumptuous to say. I do know how I am, the person who is under all of that ice. My sister, when I was sixteen, called me an ice bitch. An ice queen. I see it now, this layer of frozen tundra. I am not saying at all that she was right, because I think part of that wall rests on her, but I see the matter on my skin, in my hair, but not over my eyes—not anymore. I think I have the possibility of melting, I think I know the person below is bright and shiny. I think I was just waiting for it to happen, but now I know I have to find the ice pick and pull away the frost. And, even though it makes me feel dumb to say, I have to shed the layers of dark and twisty, scary and damaged, to get to the bright, to get to the shiny, to get to the warm without needing to be in a room full of people to find it.
Standing at the dinning room window, half past nine as the day has already turned to night, I watch the ground sparkle on the top layer of ice. The tree branches are crystal, the bush in the front yard is like a blown glass sculpture, the sheet of ice glistens like one thousand diamonds. It’s so beautiful, so peaceful, so elegant is the idea that you forget there is half a foot below cutting off life, freezing through the green, chilling the world below. The only thing that can give the grass, the trees, the earth hope is to remember that soon it will melt, wash away, and everything will be given a second chance to be new.

January 14, 2007

Author's Note: It feels good to know you're on to something.

A New Way Forward

For those of you who missed the address last night--mainly: me--here is the lovely link to WhiteHouse.gov's video of it. Oh, you can trust it.
http://www.whitehouse.gov/news/releases/2007/01/20070110-7.v.html

And yes, I still am completely inept at making links look intelligent.

I need to watch it completely and read some things. I actually am preparing myself to start that little project I mentioned a few weeks or something back. So...if you're reading, and you care, something good is yet to come.

Serious Side-Note: I do believe the carrier that was deployed to the gulf is the same ship that is now blockading the Somali waterfront. I mentioned, in a very short post, "Nuclear Ambitions Met with Maritime Strength", the ship's deployment in mid-December: "Naval carrier on the move, deployed earlier than planned to the gulf coast. Most likely, the carrier will not be used. Many are saying the deployment of this ship is simply to send a message to Iran." Maybe a little bit of luck, how we managed to deploy an extra ship to the Persian Gulf less than a month before we would be back in Somalia? It's interesting how these things happen. But, I may be wrong about that.

Also: I really wish I could be as amazing as Andrew Sullivan. That is all.

The Only Way Out is Through
Update:
My question is: if the Iraqi government doesn't step up as the plan is asking them to, what will we, the U.S., do?
I thought it was in interesting tid-bit I saw on CNN this morning, before I switched over to Comedy Central to catch The Daily Show rerun, that more American troops are going to be embedded within Iraqi brigades, training them as they go. Because of this, American troops will be able to invade neighborhoods and areas we were once unable to. We will be given the "green light", as Mr. Bush says. "Political and sectarian interference" is going to end, then? The Prime Minister has pledged that there will be intolerance for those forms of interference and that, therefore, more neighborhoods and cities "housing" insurgents and terrorists can be reached and dealt with.
In the address, the President was very forceful in demanding what Iraq must do. "America's commitment is not open-ended"...the Prime Minister is promising that Iraq will crack-down on policies and be more forceful when it comes to law. There will be a "well-defined mission" for our troops, and it looks almost as if we have a time-table, something like November for Iraq to take complete control. The whole plan revolves around Iraq, and its government finally taking that control of its nation. So, this raises the question of whether Maliki can be trusted. Sadr City is one of the neighborhoods American troops will finally be able enter; which is said will probably look something like the past few days' battle for Haifa Street. As I may remember hearing, Moqtada al-Sadr himself supported the United Iraqi Alliance during the 2005 parliamentary elections, in which the UIA obtained the majority of seats--140 out of the 275-seat National Assembly. The question is whether these ties--if they are in fact accurate and hold today--will affect the ability of embedded troops to reach Sadr City, and other areas like it, with any impact.
Also, there was mention of Syria and Iran in last night's address. From the way I see it, Iran is looking for an American/Iraqi failure in Iraq, so that, when the U.S. pulls out--having failed to over-come insurgent powers--Iran can move in--a second-coming of the Persian Empire, if you will. Syria, being the weaker of the two nations, is looking to get a strong hold within Iraq, so that if and when the U.S. pulls out, Syria can step up as an aiding force to Iraq in its weakened state. Syria, if unable to strengthen ties with Iraq, could fall short to Iran, and fall prey to its growing power. All of this, of course, is hypothetical, but in the minds of Iranian and Syrian officials, as well as in the minds of the citizens of both nations. Syria cannot allow Iran to grow as an imperialistic state; Iran cannot grow in power without expansion and nuclear ambition. And Iraq, if the government fails to step-up to America's demands, could tumble into advanced civil war and become the sickly prey of two power-hungry nations--neither, at this point, the United States.
Whether or not this plan goes over well with Congress, whether or not we are going to send more or bring home, I agree that Iraq needs to set up, take control, and trust their government to find their own way forward. I don't think it should be, or is, America's responsibility. If indeed Iraq wants to continue as a democracy, than they should meet the challenge and stand on their own. If they wish to find their own way of government, or attempt a different form of governing, than they should work toward it, discover it, and try to make it work...hopefully in a less-detrimental way than we've seen in the past.
To Pull Through, We All Must Trudge Through the Muck

Day Off

I spent the say at home, laying around, doing nothing. It was fantastic. I didn't read, though I was dying to pick up a copy of Hezbollah: The Changing Face of Terrorism, or The Iraq Study Group Report, or No god but God, and I considered breaking my spending silence and placing an order for On Bullshit and On Truth, but I did not. I also didn't watch a lot of CNN. I watched K-PAX, and I caught last night's The Daily Show with Jon Stewart about three times. But, despite my lack of socio-political concern, I feel like I might have the chance of catching up with the news media. Maybe tomorrow I should grab some cash from the ATM, hit up Starbucks, and buy myself a splendid copy of the New York Times. I could...and I might. But, before I do, I just want to see how caught up I really am....

So, al-Qaeda + Somalia = second U.S. imposition...nice.

Congress took a break for a football game...that Ohio State ended up losing...nice.

I heard they want to give themselves 100 hours to make a list or something like that. Lists are nice.

Also, did I hear something about Congress coming to a vote on a bill about the minimum wage? Um, please? That would really be nice.

...and that's about all I know.

Also, I really want to commentate something lovely on the President's speech tomorrow night, however, I will be knee deep in Cookware and/or small, kitchen appliances. That is right, I have to "work"...like this isn't work enough. So, if someone out there who knows who I am and cares about my failing reputation and saddening heart--because I cannot keep up with my socio-political loves--I would really appreciate it if you would comment, or somehow write me a detailed report. Sure!, I could pull a Jon and wait for it to be replayed in the media or written about in the Times before I give my input, but I would like to stray from my fatherly-figure for one night and be on-top of things. I know, I know, this is unlikely, and I am not counting on anyone to come through with a detailed, specific report much like the transcripts I could pull from any number of network sites; but, it is a dream I have, and I dream I think we should all work to fulfill. (And if that didn't remind you anything of Stephen Colbert, you are not watching enough TV. For God's sake, we all know I am. Seriously, I need to lay off the Colbert. I think my eloquence is much better suited for a Jonderson-type rant. However, you can be the judge of that.)

Now, if you want to hook me up with a cool transcript--a.k.a. point me in the direction of a trustworthy network whose website is posting it tomorrow night (and don't try to send me to WhiteHouse.gov! I'm serious, it's not worth your effort)--I would be ever so grateful, and you might even get a nifty mention in my next post/rant.

And, all of that, as I typed it, was said in my head by the soothing vocal stylings of Mr. Colbert himself. It was lovely.

And this, well, this was just down-right fantastic.

And for My Next Trick: I Will Actually Try to Bust Out Some Political Commentary.

Also: I joined the fantastic team at ACooperVision, where I am still uncertain of what exactly I will be doing. Rachel asked for ideas, and frankly the only ones I have involve Afghanistan and Lebanon...and, though Mr. Cooper has been both places, he isn't currently, and that may be a little..."out-dated".... But, anyway, it was well worth mentioning, because it means I may actually be getting through to some people. And, by some people, I mean myself. That blog is listed in my links, at the top--because it is alphabetical--and I am actually posting there under a different account--same name, different Blogger.

Also! Don't forget I am on AnderCandor as well, Wednesday and Thursday nights--I think....

That Really is All, Folks.

Lazy Susanne

Untitled Rant
©Rachel C

There isn’t a lot to say. I feel like I have lost myself in a way, but I have also found something I have repressed. Something that I always knew I had, but never got the chance to show, because no one was expecting that to come from me. I also feel like I have let some people down, but at this point, what can I do? Someone very wise once said to find yourself you must leave someone to themselves. “Drop a few people, and find yourself.” Don’t get lost in the haze of satisfaction. I don’t want to admit it, either, but I may be somewhat of a people pleaser. And, if that is the case—and I honestly never believed it was—I am going to have to take those words to heart.
For the first time in my life I feel like I am going “out there”, somehow putting myself forward and being accepted. More people than I could imagine know who I am, more are interested by what I have to say, and more genuinely like me for who I am—which I still find shocking. It’s mildly incredible to see myself actually pushing toward my goals, my dreams of having a “big name” in the news and literary world, my hopes of someday being someone people turn to for answers and opinions. I think somehow I was made to be that person, but it’s hard to tell when you live as I have: unsure of yourself, people at your back gnawing at your insecurities, and, worst of all, your own laziness to push beyond the limit of what needs to be done. There indeed is my main problem, one that I have prayed to over come, one that I hope for once I truly am—and for good. I get by, I always have, even when I don’t do so well, I accept it as good enough and move on. “I will do better next time”, is the slogan that trails on and on in my mind. I always tell myself to try harder next semester, next project, next life. And, even though I know to do better in the future I must try harder in the present, I let myself get by with mediocre just to finish what I started, and once I have seen that I can get away with that mediocrity, I allow myself to fall back on it the next time. There literally is, for me, no next time, because each “time” is the same effort, the same will, the same lack of motivation when my head is telling my heart to dream big. And I end up, inevitably, in the same spot—feeling blue at my lack of effort, and red at my inability to change. Something has to be done, I say, and never find what “something” is.
I have hating living this way for years—and yet, if I truly did hate it, why couldn’t I over-come it? That is a question for the ages. I suppose if I were a patient sitting in your psychiatry office, you would tell me the problem was rooted deep into my subconscious, based on something Mother-related, or maybe I have Daddy-issues or something that would eventually cause me to blame my family and never really feel better. It’s true, because I am not the kind of person who goes to the doctor for head problems. Even though I know it’s my head that is indeed the problem.
But, nevertheless, my intuition or my acknowledgement of my faults...I am finally starting to see myself rise to the occasion and...do better. Now, at this moment, I feel hypocritical, because I decided to not take the second job, and work full-time where I am. That kind of makes me feel lazy, and kind of like a failure...like I couldn’t handle it. I know I need the money, and I am regretting the decision for that matter. But, then the rest of me is logical, and I know if I can get my life under control I can start working harder on my major goals in life. Because I do want people to know who I am, I do want my name to be “out there”, and I am finally seeing that that is much more than just my little girl fantasy. It’s something that is slowly becoming a reality, and something I can do. You know, if I just turn around my head and push myself past my breaking point. If I can stop being lazy, find some motivation, and really see what it is I want in life. If I can hold on to the feeling I get when someone recognizes my effort, maybe, just maybe, I can finally achieve what I have been dying to since first grade. And, let’s face it, if I can do that...well, I’m fuckin’ set.

January 5, 2007
Author's Note: Yes, this is a piece of literature I just punched out. It's very, very contemporary, if you catch my drift...nothing at all like me. I mean, if you know me, you know how I like it formal. Also, this is NOT AT ALL a part of that series-like thing I have been posting around here. I haven't had a moment to write on that, actually, which is too terribly sad. But, I am working on it--and life--so, maybe something soon? Which is mostly directed at Uree, who I believe is my sole reader. Well, she is fantastic. Anyway, this was probably the most insightful thing I have written, and maybe it will enlighten you on how my brain works. But, other than that, it's just a little ranty-ranty essay, though more a string of thoughts, that I just decided needed posting and maybe a little literary love. I mean, if I am a writer, everything I write must therefore be literature, right? Haha, yeah.... Also, right now, despite my lack of concern for any of the blogs I am a part of, I am feeling really, really good about myself right now...and I think that is something that might be taken into consideration. I will try super hard to translate that feeling into worhty blog posts from here on out. Seriously.

Dance, Dance

Um...I feel like I've abandoned you.... I have. I got a job. I no longer have twenty-four hours--including the ten I slept--a day to spend thinking politically...which makes me sad almost. But, do not fret. I am not exactly in control of my life at this moment, but I hope to become that way very soon, and when I do I promise I will find time to not only start my project on Islam, but contribute more frequently to the lovely AnderCandor, where I have been neglecting, mostly because I am in my first two weeks on the job and I am not in control of when they schedule me until ten. So...it's not a good situation, and I guess I have some people irritated, but what can I do? Frankly, I need the job at Bed, Bath & Beyond much more than on a political blog. However, do not think I am gone forever. Give me a week, maybe two, and I will be back, bitches. I swear...kinda. I could never abandon my socio-political roots, and so I will continue to try and find a way to have both the paying job and the passion all in a days work. We'll see how that goes. Like I said, this is all going to be a journey, and I really do hope it will be fantastic.

Also, Uree gave me a link to see Saddam's actual drop to death, and if you haven't seen it--which I am sure you have, because I am like fifteen years behind here--I can post it for you. No, not the video--mostly because I don't know how--the link to the video. Sorry, Charlie, you gotta watch that hangin' on your own.

Oh, and, if any one has seen and/or heard of anything interesting you think I would find interesting as well, let me know. I am freakin' dying here, people...dying without my CNN.

Smooth.

Drunken Debauchery Doesn't Suit Me

Happy New Year.

Everything is going to change.

You're pretty much going to be along for the ride.

I hope you don't mind that I undergo major life changes in the process of attempting to bring you high-quality commentary and literature.

I'll do my best to keep being the person I have become.

But part of me thinks maybe everything should change.

And I'm praying it will all be for the better.

Everything has to change.

It's the New Year.

Every Year a Second Chance--or Another Opportunity to Mess Up--Let's Try to Be Optimistic.