Falters 100 Words

She remembers a time when the sun was too hot and time passed too slowly. Her bones shatter easy now, but the mind behind the wrinkles remembers when movies were meant to be watched and books read and pictures painted. Her fingers still move like a conductor’s when Beethoven plays, tracing the notes like the words she’ll never write again. She remembers a time when there was time, no inevitable clock at her bedside, no chemical stench or decrepit frame or fragile hands to will her down. She remembers the feeling of youthful weightlessness, until her heart falters its last.

We’re (Really) Not Doomed

Sometimes when you want to say something right you get a lot caught up in how to say it and a little forgetful of why. I remember last December I stopped writing about why because the only thing you ever learn outside yourself is who, and what, and how. I don’t think there’s anyone or anything, event, person, history textbook, quote, movie, speech, book–anything–that can teach you why things happen. That’s the reason people don’t get along, the reason we’re so bright and violent and strange. By some quirk we’re stranded here on a planet, like a tiny tiny island adrift in the Universe, like Lord of the Flies applied a billion times over. And whatever quirk it was that landed us here didn’t find it necessary to allow us to learn from others why things happen.

I live in a country unlike any others, a democracy–but that’s not why it’s different. And no matter what anyone might think of its people–stupid, clever, dirty, glamorous–the idea won’t ever be anything but beautiful.

A lot of the time people get caught up in what they think they should want that they don’t often realize what is, in fact, that they do want. I said that in my AP Lit class and I’m not taking it back because it’s so often the case. It’s a sad thing to think we, as people, want things only because other people want them. But I think if we all knew what we wanted, the world might be peaceful or violent still but it’d be a whole lot less interesting. What else do most people live for, but to figure out what they live for?

I don’t hate a lot of things. I decided a long time I wouldn’t hate anything not worthy of hating. I wouldn’t “hate” that pair of shoes with that dress. I wouldn’t “hate” seeing that girl with that guy. And most especially, I wouldn’t “hate” that man for blowing all those civilians to bits, because I can’t say I understand him, and until I understand something, I refuse to hate it. Hating something you don’t understand is the same thing as fearing it, just as time consuming and twice as needless.

But I hate, more than anything, the people who say the world’s doomed. It feels of late as if everything is aimed toward convincing the general populace of that particular, unteachable why. The media isn’t to blame–at least, not all the media. That’s like saying the Middle Easterners are to blame; who exactly are these Middle Easterners who have so insinuated themselves in our society that they turn our very fears against us? Please, do not be afraid to name names. Are not the spoken fears that less fearful for being recognized? By all means.

No, I think it is the American Dream. Take that simple phrase to mean what you will; personally, I believe it will mean a different thing to anyone you ask. I believe it is the pursuit of a great distant perfection that leaves us here. More often than not we are searching for ideal, and when we find nothing so close to perfection who can we blame but… the media?

I think once upon a time there was an American Dream. And that dream was a dream of immigrants and refugees and colonists, misfits, miscreants, misanthropes–all. It was the dream of all the people the world shook off and called “unneeded”, that there could be a place where they could achieve the greatest longing of the human being–to realize what it is we want the most, and take it for ourselves. Once upon a time the American Dream was that if one worked hard and studied hard, there would never be someone else in the way to say no, you can’t be this. You can’t be a doctor; a lawyer; a nurse; a teacher; a politician; a president. No one in the world, our tiny tiny island, could say you can’t be who you think you want to be. And when you finally achieved that goal, there is no one to say, you must continue to be who you are because you aren’t allowed to just change.

I think that’s what we all want; to be able to change. It’s not the ideal of perfection–hell, most people wouldn’t even be able to describe “perfection”, we’re so far distant from it. But I think, given a chance, a real chance, anyone would always want the ability to choose to change above an ideal we can’t scarcely fathom. I think that’s the American Dream right there.

But something happened. And I think it’s still happening. I think somewhere along the lines we grew too used to being able to choose so we started looking for someone to choose for us. People think choice means freedom, but it doesn’t. Choice means having to be responsible for whatever you choose. If there’s something most people avoid like the plague, it’s responsibility. And in America there is no lack because there’s no convenient dictator on whom to place the blame. The choices we make are our fault. Somewhere along the line we forgot that.

When? It wasn’t a moment. At least, if it was a moment, there is no mention of this instantaneous certainty in the record books and the fading minds of the oldest yet living. Somewhere between the first choice made by the first colonists to now, we have realized, finally, what it means to be able to choose.

Sounds like obscure nonsense, I guess. How can the ability to choose have any affect on the economy? My dog’s dead, my wife might as well be, my brother’s fighting a war against fear (note: fear; as if by some chance in the Middle East a stray bullet might strike the heart of fear and forever banish it from the hearts of men), and what am I to do when I can’t pay taxes? This can’t be the government the Founding Fathers envisioned! This country is corrupt–

No, not really. Your dog’s dead because things die. People die. Your wife’s gone because you blamed her for a lot of stuff that was your fault and she blamed you equally as much. You’re brother’s shooting at ghosts because we’re a nation of action–we can’t stand around when there’s fear in our minds and do nothing. From the very start we were motivated by fear and this new war is no different. This isn’t the government envisioned, no. But who would have thought, the day the first ship full of scared shaking settlers set off across miles and miles of unpredictable, unforgiving water to an equally unforgiving land, that one day there would be a country where those who have the will and vision to change, can, and do? Who would have thought?

I don’t think we’re doomed. Far from it, I think we’re melodramatic and silly and cynical all at once. And I’d hate to be any of those because they’re best suited to Shakespeare and Hollywood, not life. There is absolutely no problem anyone faces that cannot be solved. Whether people have the guts to man up and solve it–whether they want it to be solved–well, that’s another question. One I think I’ll ignore for practicality’s sake. We aren’t doomed. The colonists weren’t doomed. Our soldiers aren’t doomed. We’re not doomed. We just choose to believe it, for now.

Nothing We Can’t Solve (I Swear)

I suppose everyone and their mother has an opinion on “Why we are where we are” or whatever people are calling it lately. But I thought I’d just point out a few things.

First of all, I have absolutely no experience with politics of any kind. I am not a historian, a teacher, a politician, a diplomat, so technically anything I say could be a load of nonsense. But then if you think about it, the majority of the people out there claiming to have a reason for the economy, for the war, for every controversy ever to make it on the front page of Us–neither are they. “I can have an opinion,” a lot of critics say. True. But it’s not an opinion when you scream it like the truth.

I am so sick of people who have no idea what they’re talking about preaching like they’ve researched and considered and discarded other perspectives to get where they’re at. I have no problem at all with critics who have done all these things; if you can ask of other people the same questions you ask of yourself and at the end you still believe what you set out to question, you’ve got yourself an honest opinion. And even then, even when it is obvious to the person with the opinion that this is wrong or that is right or whatever they think, it’s still an opinion.

I received an email an hour ago (chain mail) from a teacher ranting about Obama’s conduct in foreign nations. About how Obama is now, apparently, the cause of all our nation’s ills.

To be honest, it’s not like I didn’t see that one coming.

I think Obama’s campaign managers did an excellent job of convincing a large amount of people that one man can change and heal all their ills. The bill is two months overdue? Stimulus from Obama. Lost your job to the recession? Jobs from Obama. Want to go to school? Racial-segregated scholarships from Obama.

I mean, sheesh it’s like people were expecting Obama to pick up the dry cleaning and wipe the baby for them. So no, it does not come as a surprise when a lot of people are very unhappy that none of these things are magically changed simply because a proactive black man is president.

Me? I think he’s doing a good a job as anyone else could when put in the same situation. But those fabulous campaign managers only made things harder by promising an all-encompassing and near-future change to a rather too-hopeful (read, gullible) population of hard-working single moms and poverty-level, welcare families.

So I have a right to my opinion: true. I even have a right to express it on some ridiculous obscure corner of the Internet where it will no likely rot for a year before being deleted when I clean out my accounts for college.

But you don’t see me writing a letter and circulating it on the Internet in order to garner sympathy for my rant. And that’s not the first case. It’s probably not even the thousandth!

I don’t want to scream my opinion. In fact, I’d rather not scream at all, and I’d rather no one else did either. Nothing gets solved when people are too close-minded to even consider other possibilities, to wait for reasonable explanations and take appropriate action when presented with a lack thereof; but not until all possible reasons are considered. Isn’t that what diplomacy is supposed to be about? Democracy? Finding the best path for the most amount of people and doing what can be done for the rest?

I was wrong when I said nothing gets solved when people are close-minded. Something gets solved, except by that time it’s degraded into mindless violence and mob-mentality, solved with guns and slogans rather than reason. What do people think caused WWII? Hitler didn’t command a loyal army because the people were open-minded.

I believe a lot of the problems we have are not rooted in million-dollar CEO bonuses or an ineffective president. Abortionists and activists and animal rights groups and rich people aren’t the cause of the economy and war and all-around uselessness of circular political debates. I don’t believe that a single person can cause more misery than people allow him or her to cause. I think every person who ever felt fear for their jobs, fear of higher taxes, fear of losing something, found a culprit (in one way or another) in the rich, in the terrorists, in the poor and the smart and the black and the white. In the president and the politicians; the cops and the students and the guy walking his dog who never talks to anybody. I think we’ve been afraid for a long time, and I can’t say when it started because I’m not a historian or a politician; I can’t. I just know what I see and I read on chain mail letters and the news. I just know that when good people get afraid they do bad things, they get scared, and that’s why we are at war with each other. That’s why we can’t pull outselves up–because we’re trying to pull ourselves up by dragging each other down.

It’s saddening. Everyone I know has an opinion about everyone else. And I have not yet met someone who could honestly say, “I think the other side has a point. And I’m willing to make a concession” because they think making concessions means surrendering. Except it doesn’t.

My teacher asked us once what, if we could say anything at all to the president, what we would say. I thought about it for a while and I came up with the conclusion, after I found and rejected a hundred questions and comments and criticisms, that if I had a direct line to the president, I would have nothing to say. There is nothing I could say that would change a thing, because nothing a single person says has any power but what the rest of the people ascribe to it. There is no problem, I believe, that cannot be solved by stopping screaming and starting to listen.

I suppose it’s a good thing I would have nothing to say, after all, seeing as I’m not exactly best buds with the pressie.

Red and Green

I’ve been thinking about perspective, human perspective: you know, how people see the world and how it colors what they do. I’ve come to a few conclusions, mostly opinions but conclusions in my own mind (there it is, the first hint of bias.)

Firstly, there’s color. Not color as in bias, but real color. When people see green, they associate it with cool and earthy and natural. Some people. Others see green and think, mold. Ugly. Grass. Someone could say that a paper is red and another person could say it is red but what if they’re not talking about the same red? What if the pigments we see are different, between individuals? And as children we’re taught that this is red and this is green, and some thinks it’s ugly and some think it’s brilliant. Is this the child’s opinion? Yes. But based on what? Perhaps when we think of our favorite colors, we’re all thinking of the same color, but it’s perceived differently from person to person. Maybe lavendar is the one color that draws all people but it is passionate in the minds of some and cool in the minds of others–sometimes it’s green and sometimes it’s red, but who would realize that anyway?

But, you might think, people associate feelings with colors. People almost always think red is fiery and green is cool. But a child, looking at these colors, doesn’t think that. He or she thinks red is red and green is green, and isn’t that color so beautiful? He or she doesn’t even know why. As they grow up they learn to associate ferocity with vibrant colors, and if their favorite color happens to be red, they associate ferocity with their favorite color. And if their favorite color happens to be green, they begin to associate all things green with coolness. Colors are not innately anything. They don’t feel. People make them feel, the same way people feel for the dead and people feel for ideals. People assign them feelings and children learn those feelings because that’s what the mass mind believes.

Secondly, there’s religion. A wide spectrum, to be sure. We have the naturalists and the god-worshippers and the God-worshippers–and all the shades between. We have the sacrifices and the traditions. Human sacrifices, sacrifices of coins, sacrifices of time and thought. People sacrifice their thoughts because something in this religion drawn up by men catches their fancy, and they give up a part of themselves to make room for the thoughts of the religion’s creators. Not all religions are like that. But most are.

I was reading East of Eden and there’s a quote that struck me, that “It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels or devils, since we invented them” (Steinbeck 132). And the devils and angels we see, how can we be sure they’re the same devils and angels some other poor soul down the street sees? Most certainly, the angels and devils of the rich man are not the same angels and devils as the poor one. Unless, of course, the poor man was once rich and now blames those celestial beings for his new existance; but even then, the extraordinary is tinged differently where power is concerned. Money shades it green and hunger shades it red. Whichever red or green the individual sees, who can say, but they won’t be the same red or green that every person sees, and thus the greatest sin and greatest gift will be different to one who would give all to be free than to one who would give all to be full. Or even, most especially, to one who would give all to be loved.

I think people find in religion different things. Like people might see different colors, some find in religion a type of spiritual freedom; to others, a cage. I won’t say which I favor because that would only be my perspective, and I’m trying my hardest not to be biased (it’s impossible, but I try). On the subject, I’ll only say that I have the feeling if I did not read, I would believe more in the God of Christianity. Who can say, though, perhaps reading is what brings some people to believe in God.

Lastly there is human nature. People are not perfect, but there might be another in the world that the individual finds more perfect than him or herself. A person might find perfection in beauty or perfection in simplicity, in elegance, in high cheekbones and bronzed skin or in pale complexion and rosebud lips. Who can say? Like red or green, perhaps we are all looking for the same perfection and find it in different things.

People need to know that perfection exists because it’s in their nature to hate what they see as imperfection. The mass mind that we hear so much of, the collective press of the minds of the people who influence us most–be that our parents, our lovers, our friends–helps to define what is perfect but it doesn’t explain everything. There are people in the world who can shrug off their conditioning like a coat when it doesn’t suit them anymore. Those are the people who succeed the most, the ones who start businesses and get rich, or paint inspirational pieces and die alone. (Success, too, is just perspective. If a person is happy, is not that person successful? Though where that leaves the majority of modern workers and businesspeople today, I don’t know.) And those who can break new ground are the trendsetters, but they always end up belonging to the mass mind because where they will not accept the conditioning of the majority, the majority allows itself to be conditioned by them. So in the end it doesn’t matter if they’ve thrown off tradition because traditions will follow in their wake.

Granted, this doesn’t include the hermits and those who die too young for others to remember as being anything other than human. Yes, that’s right–anything other than human. Because many people will agree that it is human to be imperfect and strive to correct those imperfections, making those who accept and even pander to their faults…inhuman. What it means to be human is only an opinion. Anyone can say people need food and shelter, but do people need love? If so, what kind of love? The love of a man or a woman? Or the love of nature? The love of elegance? The love of perfection?

If you think about it, you’ll find a lot of what you’ve accepted as fact is only perspective. When you have something you love unconditionally, you can’t imagine another not loving it as you do because your love is just that–unconditional. But that sort of love doesn’t come around too often. I think it’s a lot like being crazy. If you love something unconditionally, you don’t realize there’s any other alternative. When you’re crazy, you don’t know you’re not normal.

I suppose even if you could prove people like colors because they appeal to the same innate instinct, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. They’d still like the same colors and hate the same clothes and love the same people and hate the same people. I guess philosophy’s a lot about realizing the reasons behind what exists in theory, and a fat lot of good it does to change the hearts of people. You tell them the Muslim loves the same color as they do, it does not change their view of that Muslim. You tell them the child can read better than they can, it does not change their condescension towards the child. Philosophy only changes what people let it change.

I suppose that’s what blogs are for. Mine, anyway. All the things that have no impact on my life are the things I love best to speculate over, because it makes no difference to me. I always thought it was a better alternative to talking about my life. Too many people love doing just that. I think it’s rather tacky unless you’re James Bond or Oprah. Then it’s just interesting.

But who am I kidding? Maybe someone out there loves to read rants about soccer or politics. I wouldn’t know. The mass mind tells me these things are boring, and who am I to say otherwise?

One Can of Beans, No Tear Gas

Apparently the US is one step away from annihilating itself, but truthfully, when are we not?

My state’s got a deficit that even Donald Trump would be hard-pressed to fix. And you’d think in the midst of a crisis all the opposing parties would go–oh my gosh we need to team up to get us out of this! According to my newspaper, if we don’t agree on who’s getting cut this year, we’ll have a “state shutdown.” Which, if you ask me, is a little dramatic. I have a feeling our neighboring states aren’t just going to sit there and watch us fall into anarchy.

I read the list of proposed cuts by the Republicans, Democrats, and then our governor. I know right? There’s the parties and then there’s the person we elected. Though if you want to be technical, we didn’t elect her. She got the position after our elected governor ran off to play with guns and bombs, despite the fact that she’s probably never held a pea-shooter in her life, not to mention AKs and poison gas. But what’s a little thing like experience got to do with it, anyway?

That was a sidenote. Ignore.

So I was reading through this list of proposed cuts, and it struck me that the Democrats had some decent ideas. Instead of lumping the cuts on one or two agencies, they’re spreading the love. But then I noticed the Republicans also had some good ideas. They’re thinking the government’s going to gyp us on stimulus (which is definitely not out of the question), so they’re planning for the worst. Murphy’s law and all that jazz. And I might not like to believe the government would purposely allow us to be thrown to the dogs, but I have the feeling it’s happened before. I’m thinking it’s a good, safe thing that the Republicans in my state are a bunch of cynics.

As for the governor’s plan, I don’t see how slashing welfare (thus increasing the number starving) or taking away equipment money for the cops (thus increasing the number killed in gunfights) or even taking away scholarships offered by universities (thus increasing the number of poor kids who can go to college), is really going to solve anything in the long run. Perhaps if we were preparing for armageddon, it wouldn’t matter if Johnny-so-and-so had a degree in architecture, or that Lizzy and her daughter live on a can of beans a day…but we’re not that deep in it yet. And truthfully, if that day does come, I want my police to have enough ammo and tear gas to keep rioters from destroying the city. But that’s just me.

I don’t see why people can’t work together. No. That’s wrong. “People” implies reasoning ability. And I do see why no one can work together. Sheer, unmitigated, unnecessary stubbornness. Traditions of being uber-conservative or uber-liberal, traditions that say, “no, they’re wrong” no matter if they other party’s ideas have merit or not. Ridiculous. I think that’s what I hate the most about democracy, is the fact that it gives certain people enough power to become arrogant enough to believe they have all the answers to all our problems. And those with that power hold onto it by their fingernails even as we’re sliding deeper and deeper into the quicksand. We scream for them to throw us a rope but they don’t want to let go with even one hand to save us.

Ridiculous.

SLC to Kalispell

Wednesday, June 3

I am so sick of vacationing. No, actually, I’m sick of my parents.

Today I found out my oldest brother is joining the Army as an explosive ordinance specialist. And the first thing my dad says after hanging up is, “Your brother joined the army as an explosives expert. Why do I deserve to have two idiot sons? Now we have to prepare the bury him because he won’t survive four years of service.” I mean…I get the frustration but really? Are you serious? Thanks, dad.

But anyway…we stopped for the night in some rest area with a hole in the ground for a bathroom and grass that the dogs aren’t supposed to walk on. Oh, well. I only noticed the sign after they’d done their business on the lawn. Some trucker asked if my dog is part wolf. Sometimes I wish she were so she wouldn’t be so scared of everything.

Zion to SLC

Monday, June 1

Today we traveled a couple hundred miles across Arizona, from southern Tucson to the border of Utah. Literally. The RV park where we’re parked overnight is about 100 feet from the road that separates the two states. It’s called “Stateline Rd” and I wondered why until I saw the “Now Entering Arizona” sign right outside our campground.

Funny. This side of Lake Powell looks just like the other side. I noticed that too, a couple months ago when I crossed the California-Arizona border. And again at the Mexico-United States border.

Well duh, you might say. Just because the land has a different name doesn’t mean it’s a different land. Calling a skunk a squirrel isn’t going to make it stink less. My only conclusion: people like to slap names on stuff because it makes them feel less like they’re insignificant against the enormity of the world. Or just because they like a bit of law and order and if we didn’t have boundaries, we’d need a new government and a new name and a new system. Yeah, that’s right: a new system. It’s called anarchy.

A few notable things on the trip thus far. First is that my dog is frustrating me to no end. She completely refuses to pee when we take rest stops. Tonight I spent an hour walking her around to all the likely places and you’d think I’d get something in return for the effort. Unfortunately I haven’t taught her the phrase “Pee or I’ll Give You Away” yet. She only understands “come”, “stay”, and “bath.” Whether she listens to them is another matter. Oh, and she can hear the sound of a can opening from a hundred yards. Is that impressive or what?

Secondly, there’s the Indian Reservation. I know, I have all my priorities in order. But it was strange—I guess it always is—driving through Navajo land. Not just because I knew from the map that it was a reservation, but because of…well, everything. First of all there was the poverty in some places. As we were driving we saw little clusters of patchwork buildings, rusted cars sitting outside and skinny dark children playing tag behind shrubs. Other parts were nicer, where the pickings weren’t as thin, perhaps. And along all of the roads were empty stalls where “Handmade Jewelry” was once sold. Some of the stalls were still in business, but not many. On one of our breaks we stopped beside one that went on forever. It was this long line of desolate, mismatched stalls. Standing back in the street for a larger view, they looked eerily like the missing teeth of some giant, the face the canyon and the sky the hair. Like somebody had punched Mother Nature in the face and still she grinned and showed off those empty gaping holes.

Possibly not the best thought, but where would we be if we didn’t take the good with the bad?

Lastly there’s the whole picture-taking thing. I’m supposedly the official picture-taker and I really hate it but at the same time my passive OCD (as I like to call it) won’t let anyone else take the pictures. I just know if I let someone else do it, they’ll miss all the great things I see. This coming from the girl with the dusty messy desk and five feet of old schoolwork to go through, and a closet that looks like a dozen of those fur balls from Spirited Away imploded.

I don’t know. I just feel like I’m missing something when I’m busy taking pictures, but at the same time I can’t shake the feeling that someone else would miss it if I didn’t.

Anyway. I have to get up early tomorrow, though it’s only—yikes—ten thirty. Off to Salt Lake City.

Violence: the New Calcium

It bothers me when people complain about how it’s all bad stuff the news is showing nowadays. Well duh. That’s what people want to know about–the bad stuff.

It might seem stupid and unfair but the truth is, there just aren’t that many good things to report about. So a group of kindergarteners made a mural. Sweet. Alright. How pretty and peace-loving. The next day, a group of middle school kids paints about recycling. Alright. Alright. Nice. The next day, some kids out east make earth art. Umm haven’t we already heard this story?

But as horrible as it might be, people don’t get tired of hearing about death. Because death has more of an effect on us than earth art and murals. Death is more permanent. And violence, for those of us who live in our bubbles safe and warm at night, is a curiosity. It’s new and it never gets old. Thirty people were killed in a suicide bombing in Afghanistan. Oh my gosh! The next day, twenty dead in a minor earthquake in Cali. Oh no! That could’ve been us! Five troops killed in the line of duty today. Break out the black and the prayers and the grief masks because as much as we’d like it to, pretty pictures of the earth are not as lasting as death. And violence, the stabbing of that kid down the street, the accidental shooting of this-or-that celebrity, it’s an exotic. We all need our daily dosing of violence. Without it we forget that violence exists outside of stories and the past.

Violence: the new calcium. They should put that on milk cartons.

Novels of Literary Scener–ah, Merit

I just finished reading Children of Men by P.D. James and I have to say I love it. Which is definitely not the response it got from the rest of my friends…but I liked it more than 1984 or even Handmaid’s Tale. I’m don’t know if I’ll like it more than Brave New World or A Clockwork Orange, which are next on my list, but I think I will.

I’ve always read books that any sane person would agree are “junk food” of the literary world. You know, the mindless cliched action novels? And then I got into the so-called “novels of literary merit” (more on that in a second), and I realized they write like I think. Who doesn’t love knowing the parallels between how someone writes and how they think? I think in symbols and hidden meanings (more often than not confusing myself), these books are big puzzles for me to unravel. I suppose that’s the reason I do well with literary analyses at school.

It sort of annoys me that there’s a group of people who sit around deciding which books are “of literary merit.” And most people would die if they had to read the whole list because it consists of Shakespeare (not so bad), Voltaire (ugh), and Steinbeck (can you say, drug-free sleeping pill?). I think if we tallied up the number of passages describing the scenery and compared them to the number where something is actually done, Guinness would have a new world record.

Also, the majority of the books on that list were written by old white men in the nineteenth century. Which may explain, partially, the obsession with elderberry bushes and low grey clouds but does little for modern readers. What do modern readers want? Mindless blood and gore, would be the response of those conventionalists who have a deep and abiding love for all things scenery. But truthfully, no one would respect a book of blood and gore as a book of literary merit even if a committee slapped the label on it. No. Constant action and whatnot is good for recooperation (goes well with chocolate), but why not choose more books with deep meanings and a constant plot? No more of that dragging, excruciating descriptions of clouds and trees and rocks (geez, Walden). I swear, there should be a limit to how many pages of description an author can write. Or at least, a limit that applies to books I need to read to pass my upcoming AP exams with a decent grade.

But despite the half a book characterizing everyone’s appearances and the loneliness that is Theo, Children of Men was surprisingly good. Not that childhood memories of smelling old houses and the Carl’s skull-like face aren’t interesting. I’m sure the author intended some deeper meaning that would not have sounded as good if rather than taking five pages and 15 minutes of my time to come to the same conclusion, she’d spit it out in two or three sentences and saved everybody a whole lot of “are we ever going to reach the end?” Okay, so it doesn’t sound as nice if she just says that Carl looks like the Grim Reaper. But really. Surely not everything must be picked apart and left in shreds for other people to meticulously sort through and glue back together.

Which is the reason I always retreat to my junk food books, because I don’t go into a novel about dragons expecting a chapter-long description of the nearby lake. It’s nice, once in a while, to be told what the heck I’m supposed to get out of this.

___

6/14/09

Alright, alright, so I loved Clockwork Orange and Brave New World both. And I’ve started reading East of Eden by Steinbeck and I have to say I’m surprised: despite the endless descriptions of scenery, I was able to get through the first few chapters so far. I think once you know what the heck’s going on it really isn’t so bad.

Thus far I’ve read these “books of literary merit”:
-Children of Men by P.D. James
-Handmaid’s Tale by Margret Atwood
-Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
-A Clockwork Orange by …uh. I forget.
-The Warrior Woman by Maxine Kingston (I think)
-All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Marques (something or another)
-One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey

and I’m in the process of reading:
-East of Eden by John Steinbeck
-Empire Falls by Richard Russo
-Candide by Voltaire
and
-Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

It’s a plateful.

Genetic Engineering

So we were watching a video in Biology about the pros and cons of genetic engineering. My friend who sits next to me was getting pretty pissed at Watson (who is somewhere on the wrong side of 80 and takes 5 minutes to say anything) because of some comment or another about how people with manic depression shouldn’t have children. I guess it pissed her off because he was basically saying she shouldn’t have kids–and she shouldn’t exist. Basically her whole family has it, and here’s some scientist saying they shouldn’t exist.

Who’s to say?

Okay, so, here’s what I think about genetic engineering, if anyone cares to know. I think genetic engineering is neat. I like the idea that we can make genes. I don’t like the idea that we can make monsters with those genes. I like the idea that we can help fetuses who would grow to have disabilities be able to walk and talk like a normal kid. I don’t like the idea of genetic enhancement. I like that we can help people live longer. I don’t like that we can mess with the human genome. I like genetically engineering food. I don’t like genetically engineering people.

It’s not as simple as all that. I’ve learned that a lot of things aren’t that simple. And people who look for simple answers for complex problems are the same ones arguing day and night, again and again, the same circular reasoning that never accomplishes anything but spawning another generation of angry self-righteous arguments.

I think the idea to genetically engineer food is fantastic. It’s one of the best things to ever come out of a lab. As far as anyone knows, no diseases or deaths have ever been linked to genetically engineered food. Why is that? Because when you genetically engineer a tomato to be perfect, you aren’t tossing in extra genes. You aren’t giving it whiskers or feet or the ability to leap tall buildings. You’re just giving it the correct genes, the genes which have previously made perfect tomatos. It’s not like the DNA is going to randomly mutate into a giant tomato monster. If you didn’t get sick from eating a normal perfect tomato then you’re not going to get sick eating a genetically engineered perfect tomato. The only difference is in the method of production, and that’s only at the seed stage.

So, food is alright. It’s cheaper to raise a crop of perfect plants than a natural crop where blight can eat up half the profits and a number of other things can happen to make farming costly for poorer countries. But what about…animals?

I understand the mice. Testing on mice is a way of determining the later effects on humans because we share 99.9% of our DNA with them. I would rather a mouse swallowed a pill before me. Why? Because mice aren’t sentient, because mice are animals, blah blah a hundred different excuses, but it all comes down to…I’m human. We’re human. And it’s human nature to extend the lives of…humans. We see more suffering in other people than we ever will in animals.

However, the excess is too much. We see testing on animals that has little use in the real world. So scientists know how to grow a mouse without its legs. And that makes it right to do that? Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Where’s the line? Who says what’s right and what’s not? I think it’d be nice to have a great big scale with numbers and an arrow with degrees of rightness. It’d have been nice to have that scale when Hitler marched on Europe and Paris Hilton bought the latest in skinned animal fashion. But again, a simple answer to a complex problem.

I watched Gattaca one day in school, and it struck me how possible it all was. Not the fact that one guy managed to fool all those tests–yeah right. If you’re advanced enough to use eye scans and automatic urine tests, you’re advanced enough that someone’s going to talk. No, what struck me was how scientists could manipulate the human genome. You want your child to have blonde hair? Athletic? Intelligent? Done.

Why don’t you just go buy one at a store and be done with it.

Because honestly, that’s what it’s going to come down to. I’d like to think that scientists would be content with making people semi-disease-proof. I’d like to think we’d know where to stop but the truth is, I don’t think we’d be able to help ourselves. That big beautiful world of genetic manipulation, just waiting for us to…manipulate…

If nothing else, I would support genetic engineering so that people don’t have to go through 5 years of chemotherapy and end up dead anyway. I’d support it so autistic kids won’t get laughed at in class and the blind people can see and the deaf, hear, and all that jazz but the truth is I don’t think people would stop there. If you could give anything to your child, if you knew they were going to turn out as dumb or ugly or challenged as you perceive yourself to be, why not fix it? Pretty soon the technology’s going to be $5 a gene, buy one get one free until supplies last.

Funny how those things work, huh. People, being people, can’t help but want immortality and perfection because what else is going to fill 40 pages on Glamour? We’ve got our celebrities and our controversies and our cutting-edge drugs. And what’s it all aimed at? The goals genetic engineering has the potential to reach with a leap and a bound without all the hard work and studying and makeup.

Sounds a lot like cheating. If it’s possible to cheat at life.

Well anyway school’s tomorrow and my friend’s convinced me to attempt to sum up my life in a note on Facebook. Soo no blogging. Probably.