lies

 I had this weird epiphany in the hallway of Wayzata high school. I was trotting down the stairs, thinking about lying and lies and the ways we lie, gazing out at the blindingly white snow, the glint of the sun off of the rows of red and black cars, the nearly naked trees. The knowledge sort of punched me in the throat.

Everything is essentially a lie.

I looked down at the speckled granite of the stair case: lie.
The 90 degree angle of the shining, gray metal railing on the stairs: lie.

Our structured society is an illusion. Why do we accept that the long rectangles of "stairs" are stairs.. They aren't really. We have just accepted them to be... And it has closed our minds to other possibilities-- they are polished rocks, pressed into concrete, they are a floor hockey rink, a slide, an exercise machine, a place where people can lie down in neat rows, a back massager, a podium. Anything can be anything, but our language and our narrow mindedness prevents us from always seeing that. Why do we accept that the lines and dots of this sentence really are the meaning behind what I am writing? Why is Monday Monday?

The human race prides itself on being so much more intelligent and complex than our lesser animal counterparts. We have creativity! But do we really? We drudge through daily life, going through the motions of what is expected of us, empty and confused.  We accept, and become blind, lost in the word. If I am looking out at a sunset, and just think to myself, sunset, pretty, colors ah I am missing the moment. I am stuck in the neuron patterns of my mind.

I know this is a dead, lungs plugged, decaying, maggot crawling, festering, metaphor but we are all sort of chickens with our heads cut off. Our bodies are rushing around purposefully, muscles contracting, and our minds sort of follow behind, unaware.

In Spanish we had to draw a picture of an assigned word. Mine was la inestabilidad. I drew an insane man, curly hair alive, eyes shrewd, face haggard. He was bundled in a strait jacket in a padded asylum. My Spanish teacher looked at me like I am the persona con mucha inestabilidad, he sort of raised is eyebrows, pursed his lips down a bit, and eyed me quizzically. Okay.... He said, and dismissed me.

I don't think that drawing was creative. The insane person could actually be sane, and we are all insane. The world is instability; everything we deem order and structure lives on the teetering premise that we narrow mindedly accept. Nothing is as it seems.

Fire

I. Its base is transparent periwinkle. Then grey, white-yellow. It has no edge. 
II.  Singed eyebrows, too short eyelashes
III. roasts marshmallow- slightly golden or black, bubbling, charred 
IV.  CH₄(g) + 2O₂(g) → CO₂(g) 2H₂O(g)
V. The lava that comes out of the onion volcano at P. F. Changs. 
VI. blackness it its wake. Starves, branches bare, crumbling. Weeds spring, feed on death. 
VII. A protest, torrents of orange and red engulf a monk, legs a triangle of steel, robes turning to ash. 
VIII.  Casts romantic shadows on the walls, permeating pumpkin spice, midnight vanilla.
IX. Flaming bombs: the maimed limbs of fallen soldiers. 
X.  These sit in rows, under the shadowed dome. Eloquent, twisted limbs of naked angles. pools of inky wax. Weeping mothers light them. Jesus is serene, eyes cast down, palms out.  
XII. The soul of a hot air balloon, floating higher, endless sky. 
XIII. The cauterizer of a bleeding gash, the smell of roasting human flesh.
XIV. With a pop and the pungent taste of kerosene, it leaps out of a gilded lighter, I <3 Mom. 
XV. Dead, steaming, dampness. 
XVI. The skeleton of a house, melted iron. 
XVII. California's nemesis 
XVIII. The caveman's un-numb toes and strings of steaming animal 
XIX. A droplet of orange, shaking. Elongating. Growing and dying. The wind's tango partner.
XX. A throbbing lymph filled soar, stinging. Hastily inserted into a purple plastic cup of ice water. 
XXI. A god. Circles of chanting people, holding hands, dancing around the leaping swirls of orange.

Tradition

Extreme, cynical perspective: 

Tradition gives humans the illusion that there is order in chaos (ahaha, there's the lame name of my blog). Humans are creatures of habit-- we think that if we go about life repetitively, routinely, then we are in control.They also give us the illusion that we are united. Kum baya. But we are all inherently alone; we will never truly know another soul besides are own. And do we even know our own soul?

I always feel empty going through the motions of a holiday. I try to channel my childhood excitement, I reach for it, and it never comes. Because I cannot lie to myself. Each holiday is just another ordinary day, it is not any different because of a human label- Thanksgiving, Christmas.
here is kind of the extreme side of tradition cynicism.. Here is the other side.

Traditions only exist because they make money. Retailers don't care that Jesus was born on Christmas, they care that you buy eight billion candy cane rain deer. Everything comes down to money. We are materialistic.

Lets not be dismal perspective: 

Tradition intertwines us with our ancestors, and all humans everywhere. We are all inherently connected, made of the same chemicals, glints of our souls visible through each others eyes. Yes, shoving bread up a bird's ass is simply that. But is impossible to ignore that the meaning behind it goes deeper. The knowledge that everyone around the country is also doing it simultaneously, and that for hundreds of years people have been doing it, makes us feel apart of something greater than our own mini universes.

One Thanksgiving past, my dad was supposed to take us children. When we showed up to his apartment, he was very intoxicated, so we left and ended up at my mom's friend's friend's sister's house. They are avid believers in Voo-Doo and had a Tofurkey. No judgement. But my little traditions: real turkey- live meat, killed and roasted, our slacker Christian-ish prayer, were broken. This (and the fact that my dad once again let us all down) made for the worst Thanksgiving ever. Why did the fragmentation of tradition cut my soul open? I feel entitled to turkey, to hastily bowed heads and a prayer- thing, to my family happily chugging mashed potatoes and lard based gravy. And there we were, singing Grateful Dead songs under the flicker of candle flames with randos.

We all hold tenaciously to these traditions, and when they change or don't work out, we become enraged. Why? We feel connected to the universe, even if it is a bit of an illusion. We feel connected to family and our past selves.

Inspiration

Slowly I have been weening myself off of Pinterest. The little red word: Art, in the category menu is my crack. I can drop five hours just admiring the small squares of amazingness.

 I need art, I breath art, I love art. I remember signing up for classes in eighth grade; four open boxes? Who wouldn't fill them all with art classes? Mixed Media, Drawing 1, Drawing 2, Pottery 1. Yes.

this is watercolor.... holy shit. 

Then I arrived in the sterile corridors of Wayzata High School. Art is something that is shoved in the corner. Something to admire passively. It is not serious. I should focus on math, football games.

What irks me is the overwhelming attitude towards this subject. When I say anything about my art, I meet raised eyebrows and 'knowing' glances. It is a slacker class, they say with a laugh. AP Drawing? Hahaha, what do you do for the AP test? Draw? Hahaha.

Then I show them one of my pieces, and the shut up pretty quickly.

I constantly meet the mentality that art is lesser. I even bought into it for a while junior year. Advanced drawing and AP drawing in one year? My inner tiger mom screamed at me in disgust, "That's not college material. You should have taken more REAL AP classes."

I have come to see that what I have with paint is special. No one really understands, and that doesn't matter at all. Creating makes me happy. My soul sings with the even shading of charcoal, from dark, harsh black, to the lightest of light grey. I can literally do whatever I want; a white starchy canvas is infinite possibilities.

I can say anything about human nature, life. It all comes pouring out of my paintbrush. Creation is innate. It is stitched permanently in the fabric of me. I cannot live without it.

Banksy makes my heart palpitate. 

Salvador Dali is a genius. 

If I follow my passion, lots of people will, (and already do) tell me it is a waste of time, a waste of brain. I will add a stipulation to Seth's statement: without art we are animals. Without the ability to see beauty and recreate it, we are just blobs of flesh and enzymes.


This blog assignment made me realize that I should definitely be applying to art school. I have always felt torn between my love of learning and my innate need to do art. But that fork in the road (for lack of a better metaphor) is an illusion, and I will forge my own trail.

Dali again.. ahhh. 

Observations

I feel anxious when I brush my teeth.

The plastic, semi-transparent trash bag is a fresh jagged cloud.

Green pine tree fingers pulse and twitch in the wind.

Humans are forty percent stardust.

Her whiskers are the white arches of drooping parabolas.

Whenever I gossip, this Eleanor Roosevelt quote comes to mind:
"Great minds discuss idea. Average minds discuss events.
Small minds discuss people."

The ceiling is smeared cottage cheese.

Conversation

With permanent marker thursday night, I watched as the ink of these words seeped into my pores, and  spidered out in tiny overflowing smudges on my right hand:

"In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud
under the bludgeoning of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed."

It is the second paragraph of "Invictus." I want to memorize it, so I can recite it in times of distress, to remember my strength.

Friday I was in AP Calc. That sterile, boring classroom is a complete drag. Despite the taunting posters littered like flotsam across the walls that say "Math is FUN!" math is not fun. Who cares what the rate is of the radius of a a circle created by a stone dropped into a lake? Hmm, no one.

My palms, always loyal in times of distress, are sweating like two pigs that just got off the treadmill. My paper is wet, but I manage to finish the quiz. I drop it in the yellow stack accumulating on the corner of Mr. __'s desk and hand him my calculator. We are getting new programs, I'm so excited, I think it might be Christmas.

Randomly, slightly incredulously,  he asks me, "Did you get a tattoo?" His eyes are focused on the pink curves of my TI-84, but I can see the judgy glare below the lowered eyelids.

This is strait up weird. I have probably conversed with my math teacher three times. Sometimes I pass through a whole block and realized I haven't opened my mouth. It's not that I am overly shy, I just have no friends in that class and math is shit.

"Errmm... No." I say with a little fake awkward laugh.

"Oh, good. I was just wondering about that." And he hands me my calculator with a small smile.

I don't really know why this tiny conversation phased me so much. I guess I feel invisible in Calc, so it was kind of a shock to know that people, and my teacher, see me. But mostly, why would he care? What if it was a tattoo? Would he be more apt to scrawl those tiny red -2's, -1's on my tests? Or maybe he just has a tattoo thing. My grandpa hates tattoos with the fiery passion of the flames of hell, perhaps Mr.__ is the same.

We are all visual creatures. The vision part of every human brain is proportionally the largest. This shows that everyone ( even the most genial of us) inadvertently judge others based on physical appearance, what is manifested in front of our eyes. I shouldn't be surprised by it.

Sushi and Comedy: They Do Relate

You might be wondering how raw meat with rice and SNL skits are related. Jiro Ono and Tina Fey are both experts; they are bound by passion and intrinsic competitive spirits. How they achieved this success, how their stories are presented, and the cultures that formed their lives, are, of course, extremely different.

Tina Fey grew up in a typical American home. She was  always loved and supported by family. She charmed her way, humorously, through early life. Jiro Ono's background was much harsher. He left his family at around age 9 and began his sushi career then. He was motivated by survival instinct and passion.

Ono truly dedicated his entire life to sushi. He claims he "[has] never once hated this job. [He] fell in love with [his] work and gave [his] life to it." He remembers waking up at 5 am every morning throughout his son's childhoods and coming home at 10 or later. His son did not recognize him when he was home. He admits to not being much of a father then, and does not really seem to care, because it is all in the name of improving, coming closer to perfection.

Fey is more "well-rounded" than this. In Bossypants She focuses on all different parts of her life, and she  has values, goals, and aspirations beyond just her work. The end of her book was  a rant about her torn feeling between having another kid and focusing on work. When she was describing a stressful week when her daughter was having her birthday party and Oprah was coming on 30 Rock, she describes the events as equally important to her.

The thing that binds these two is their pure passion and inherent love of the subject. That is the basis of their success. Ono says he feels "ecstasy everyday" and that he "loves making sushi." He does not care about the money, and only cares about improving his sushi. Fey is the same way; she simply loves to be funny. In her novel, the one time when she completely owned her success with pride was when she was Sarah Palin on SNL. She does not care about awards, famous people, photo shoots, money, it comes down to passion.

Another binding characteristic between Fey and Ono is an intense spirit of relentless perfectionism. Both of them, despite their success, are never really satisfied, and always yearn for improvement. Ono says that "after decades of work, [he] does not think he has achieved perfection." His advice is to "always look ahead and above yourself, always try to elevate your craft." It is the same with Fey. She insults herself throughout the entire book, constantly saying that Will Ferrel and Amy Pohler are the truly talented ones. Ono and Fey are bound by humbleness and knowledge that perfection is unattainable. Yet they still fiercely fight to be the best; not in an external way, but intrinsically. They compete with the craft itself within themselves.

The presentation of these stories also effects how the reader/viewer sees Fey and Ono. Bossypants is an autobiography. It is structured in an easy-to-read way that follows various stories and blurbs about Feys life. It is speckled with hilarious pictures and jokes. Fey wants to make the reader laugh, which of course makes her seem like a funny, laid-back person. Whereas Jiro Dreams of Sushi is a documentary; with bleak gray imagery of Tokyo, intense dramatic music, and all of the manipulative nuts and bolts of cinematography. This invokes an image of Ono as focused, intense. These juxtaposing images illustrate how the medium used to display their stories effects the audience's perception.

Fear / The Most Embarrassing Thing Ever

Wanna hear the lamest, most idiotic story ever?

It was a peaceful afternoon in Suburbia. The sun was a-shining, the leaves where a-swirling through the sky. I was home alone, gazing out the window, when a white van slowly approaches my driveway. The wind is wild, and our swing begins to thrash about like an angry toddler.

The white van enters the driveway. It turns in and parks. A dude with a dark brown, overly large coat with creeper vibes gets out of the ominous vehicle and begins walking up the stairs to our front door. I freak out. White van, creepy dude, a breezy autumn day: I am obviously about to be stabbed to death. I run to the phone and call my mom (which if I actually was about to be decapitated probably wasn't the smartest move). No answer. I call my auntie Dede, who picks up. I quickly tell her that I am probably going to die, and she tells me to call the police.

I can't believe I am actually writing this down. Anyhoo...

I called the police, they came, I am stupid, it was the stump remover guy.... Why, why, why, do I have to live with this. I am sorry world.

Before you call the insane asylum hotline, this story makes a more sense in context. I had lived in the sheltered bubble of Suburbia my entire young life, when all of a sudden, we moved to a duplex in Northeast Minneapolis. (What do you get when you put three spastic toddlers, one narcissistic father, one bitter mother, and an intolerant, hateful pot-smoking couple in the same general living vicinity? Divorce, of course!) In our absolutely delightful duplex my slight paranoia issues began.

Here are a few things that pushed me over the edge:
1. A certified sex offender walked down our street every single day with his German Shepard at the exact time we had to leave for school.
2. A shooting occurred in front of our house.
3. There was a park across the street, and on my way there a grey-bearded creep jumped out at me behind a tree.

This was too much for my sheltered brain and I went into over-cautious mode. I was scared to leave the windows open at night. I thought that the sound of the old pipes creaking and screaming were murderers. Everything was a threat. I remained in that mode even once we moved back out of the Cites.

I guess it was good that the police incident happened, it made me realize how completely extreme and ridiculous my fear had become. I was able to come to the conclusion that if the end of the world comes there are two ways I can live until it actually happens. I can sit in the corner waiting for something to attack me, surrounded by protective pillows and holding my brothers Nerf gun menacingly. Or I can relax, and embrace the moment with bravery. So I chose the second one. In the split second it took me to shove this embarrassing story into the depths of my soul, I decided to grow some. I left my window open without having an aneurism, and I lived happily ever after.

Analyzing Real Housewives of New Jersey

One of my good friends is a Housewife addict. She watches seasons in a periods of two days... Ahh, that Housewife high. I asked her which episode is her favorite, and she texted me, "Real Housewives of New Jersey, Reunion episode. Shit gets real."

Like most reality TV shows, this episode opened amidst fragmented clips of high powered drama, charged music, and one of those announcers who sounds like he warming up for a five hour singing performance. "AAnnnDDDD HeeerRRRReee'SSSSSSSS REALLLLL HOUSSEEEEWIVESSSSSS!!!!!"

The camera flashes to the women on stage. They are middle-aged moms, yet are dressed in what look like prom dresses. They have full-out makeup with heavily drawn black eyeliner and orangeish foundation. Their bare legs are splayed at varying angles. They look like they are trying to be young. The gaudy colors and ill-fitting dresses seem tacky and the over-done makeup seems fake. But the hairstylists and producers did not have to make them look this way, it was deliberate. The show producers tried to make the women look over dressed: showing too much skin for their age, looking overly made up, to emphasize the stereotypes they are drilling in to us, "These catty women are fake and materialistic."

The man who is supposed to be "mediating" this reunion, slightly grey haired and innocent looking, warped the conversation as if theses women were his marionettes. He brought up subjects that he and the producers know are sources of tension among the ladies. He is payed to "make the shit get real."
He showed a flashback clip about one of the most insane, dramatic moments of the season, a family brawl. Literally punches were thrown in the clip. Remembering the pain of these memories, one of the women started crying, and I swear I saw this mediator-dude smirk in triumph.

Everything he says intentionally heightens the drama. "Oh my gosh, she said you have a big forehead?" This guy (backed my the makers of the show of course) makes the women look more emotional than they would have if he hadn't brought up tense subjects.

The ladies are from New Jersey, so they have the accent. They say "youse." There was a flashback of all the times during the season where their grammar was wrong. One was singing amazing grace and said "...save a wench like me."
The show is again enforcing the stereotype, by emphasizing their accents and grammar issues, that these women are unclassy and stupid.

People justify watching reality tv by telling themselves "Oh, I know these people are trash, but I am going to make the conscious decision to indulge." The producers heighten preconceived stereotypes even more to make viewers feel right. They capitalize on the idea of "indulging." If you are indulging, you feel above the drama, and justify wasting hours of time doing nothing. The more trashy it perceived to be, the better to indulge in,  which gets more views.

"Another Love"

Don't actually watch the music video, its super weird and boring. 

LISTEN TO HIS AMAZING VOICE! 

"Another Love"

Tom Odell 

I wanna take you somewhere so you know I care

But it's so cold and I don't know where

I brought you daffodils in a pretty string

But they won't flower like they did last spring

And I wanna kiss you, make you feel alright

I'm just so tired to share my nights

I wanna cry and I wanna love

But all my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

And if somebody hurts you, I wanna fight

But my hands been broken, one too many times

So I'll use my voice, I'll be so fucking rude

Words they always win, but I know I'll lose

And I'd sing a song, that'd be just ours

But I sang 'em all to another heart

And I wanna cry I wanna learn to love

But all my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

I wanna sing a song, that'd be just ours

But I sang 'em all to another heart

And I wanna cry, I wanna fall in love

But all my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

On another love, another love

All my tears have been used up

This song is just so amazingly perfect. It relates to the reader, aka me. The feeling of yearning to feel a certain way, and failing leaves me in this stage of melancholia that almost feels good, because trying to force myself to feel was so impossible. (Though my feelings aren't love, I'm not that mature, outgoing, or teenagery.)

The imagery, though there is not very much of it, is clear and bittersweet. There is juxtaposition between the softness of what love should be, and his realization that he is not in it. "I brought you daffodils in a pretty string/ But they won't flower like they did last spring" 

The cadence of the song also reflects his feelings. Every other line the voice is higher with infliction, and then the next line is lower, and the voice dissolves quietly, sadly. This shows his moments of determined hope, he wants to be in love, and tries so hard to be, but just can't. He gives up, yet the feeling is still beautiful. 

So thats why this song is clearly awesome. Back to other homework! 

A College Essay, Madness Unveiled.

One of my college essay questions is simply "What would you do if you had a free weekend?" I have to answer in under 25 perfectly crafted words, hitting that subtle balance between quirky and unique, yet still demonstrating my charisma, big fat heart, and innate desire to improve the delightful planet we call Earth.

My first thought is to make this as over-the-top, insane as possible, yeah, I will totally stand out.
"I shall soar to outer space on Virgin Galactic, see God and My Soul amongst the twinkling stars, fly back down, and cure cancer."

 I cannot deny that my honest answer is "Walk around the house in my underwear, fuzzy socks and penguin snuggy, eating heaping spoonfuls of Nutella while simultaneously watching old Sherlock reruns and reading the Outlander Series."

I feel like I would be attacked by a vicious mob of sharp toothed, flesh shredding college admission officers for the truthful answer, and my application would be flushed down the gleaming red toilet of "You Suck" compared to what I am imagining my competitors would say,
 "Win my national violin competition, then donate overwhelming piles of money to the fund to end the homelessness of cats everywhere, then volunteer for 24 hours at a soup kitchen"

I HIGHLY doubt that any response like this is genuine. Ask any one of my try-hard friends what they genuinely would like to do in a period of free time, their (usually narrow) eyes become huge and whimsical and they utter unthinkable phrases like "have friends" or "Go out to dinner" "Find a boyfriend" or "Walk my dog, Biscuit."

It is not wrong that most of us want to just veg out and wallow, satisfied and warm, in life's delightful creature comforts. Our lives are insane mountains of homework, daunting college apps, and all kinds of extra-circulars, volunteering madness.

Instead of submitting my pho-philanthropic, what-I-think-colleges-will-want-to-see answer "Build a library for the starving children of Peru" I think I will just be honest, and say what I am positive nearly everyone who is writing this essay is subconsciously thinking. If the snooty college can't handle a slice of reality and truth, it's their loss.

Friday

Friday
 I glance over my shoulder and the grey road is crammed with aggressive rush hour drivers, but there is a small opening. I flick on my blinker and get off at 25th street. The sky is a light and cloudy grey and crumpled brown and yellow leaves blow and swirl through the air. I drive to Middlebrook Hall, a completely regular-looking red bricked edifice that holds all of the U's honors college students. Annie Thompson runs out of the entrance in a flurry. She looks so collegy and sophisticated with her brown messy bun, flowing peach scarf and black rectangular glasses. We have been trying to get together for months, and finally I am at the U! I park, and we put what feels like a hundred quarters into the meter. She leads me into her dorm and explains "Everyone in my dorm is super cuddly and close, but I haven't succumbed to the cuddling.. I don't want the germs all over me. My friends and I call ourselves the crew. Did I mention I am an avid West Ham fan now? I ordered a twenty dollar scarf from England!" We arrive at the eighth floor and walk to her cramped and dimly lit dorm. Her roommate, a round-faced Norwegian girl is laying on the bed with a curly haired guy, evidently napping and cuddling, and I large nerdy guy is sitting in the corner with his laptop. T.S. Eliot and Lord of The Rings quotes are strewn all over the walls and drying laundry hangs haphazardly everywhere.
Then we wander across the University. She shows me where her classes are and describes her weird professors. We pass some students slack lining and listening to Nelly Fertado. Sipping lattes and eating giant peanut butter cookies we walk down Frat row. Annie hasn't been to one party and finds Frat row disgusting. I love her.
We end up at the river. Its brown depths curve slowly to where it meets the maroon bridge, and it's lined with orange and green trees. We talk about inside jokes from last year, how quickly people from high school change, and how refreshing it is to start over. "Just be yourself. People will love you. You are going to have so much fun in college!!" Annie tells me enthusiastically.
For a moment I let myself slip into a yearning mentality. I want to go to college so badly. The slightly dreary hall of Wayzata High School are starting to get to me. I want change and to be surrounded by liberals. I want cool friends who randomly like British soccer and who hate football and partying! AH! I WANT!
I force myself to come back to reality. I have one more year, and I can choose to enjoy it and embrace it. Or, I can waste my life focusing on wanting the future.
I am beyond excited for what college will bring, but I am doing my best to stay in the moment. The moment is the only thing that is real. And life is so short, it is a waste of everything to constantly be thinking forward into a future that does not exist, and that is an illusion.

Analysis of Humor

Click Here!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyKZk4YxfPw

This skit begins by saying that this C-Span program is usually about politician's beach houses, but the program is being interrupted for Obama's message. Already SNL is portraying the idea that politicians are lazy disconnected from the average Americans, who of course cannot afford beach houses.

The skit goes on to show a variety of "typical Americans" and their reactions to Obamacare. They all are confused as they wildly and incorrectly interpret the health care's actual details and implications. Their absurd reactions to Obamacare illuminates the reality of most people being unsure about the details of Obamacare. This tension between the absurdity of these fictional characters reaction to the act and that generally people are ignorant about the act's details creates a humorous reaction and places emphasis on the argument: most of the country is confused about Obamacare's details. SNL also argues that while the president has good intentions, there will be people who take advantage of this, such as the young man who is a drug addict.

When the Republican comes on, he speaks only in allusions to Dr. Seuss stories. This reflects the real inability of the two parties to communicate as well as how the Republicans are not getting any serious work accomplished.

Then later, the juxtaposition between "healthcare Oscar" singing about how easy it is to get health care and when he falls and says he doesn't even have it himself so they shouldn't call an ambulance, again creates this humorous tension that exhibits how Obamacare is actually difficult to sign up for and would not apply to the people who need it the most, which are immigrants.

Rhetorical Mode

Narration

 I unwillingly sit in an uncomfortable, overly-squeaky computer chair and flick open my mom’s laptop grudgingly. The internet taunts me as the light blue loading bar gets bigger by fractions of millimeters and stalls. Over. And Over. Thirty minutes pass as I try coaxing it into cooperation. I think about the eight supersite activities, three newspaper articles, ten bookwork problems, and sheet of verb conjugations that I still have to do, all for stupid Spanish 4, and I want to cry with irritation. My heartbeat quickens angrily and my blood turns to liquid steel. I want to hurt something. My skin crawls with invisible irritation and I itch savagely everywhere leaving angry steaks of pink across my pale flesh. The inability to get my work done with the knowledge of homework hanging over my head is a terrible feeling. 

Homelessness

When I was really young I lived in Minneapolis, and I remember passing under bridges and seeing the raggedy blankets and worn, raggedy people who lived there. They scared me a little, but I was fascinated and pitied them. I always wanted to help them, and I assumed they had the same capacity for growth, learning and improvement that I did. If they just got a job, they could get their lives together,  and would be okay, I thought.

I moved to the suburbs and became, like the majority of suburbanites, sheltered from most worldly hardship. I never saw those weary people except for the occasional person begging on the side of the street when we drove downtown. The city installed spikes under bridges to deter the homeless, like pigeons deterred from the top of a shiny red Target sign.

One day I was in driving near uptown with my friend and her mom. They had traveled to India and have been exposed to unimaginable poverty that I have only witnessed in Slum Dog Millionaire. They go to a meditation center regularly, and could be classified as contemporary hippies. We were waiting in the long traffic line on Hennepin near the Walker and we saw a  man with the signature cardboard sign. They were both sympathetic, pondering if they should give him only their doggy bag from the restaurant or include some money too. "Don't give him any money, he'll probably just buy drugs with it" I said ignorantly. To be fair, I heard that quote directly from what I learned in school.
They both looked at me like I was some daft and exotic caged specimen, and quietly handed him the bag out of a cracked window.

More time passed by, and when I saw homeless people I developed a slight twinge of disgust and annoyance. Why can't they just go get a job at McDonalds? I thought. What I didn't realize, and what I have come to understand now is that the homeless are usually mentally ill, unable to work, and do not have the same potential that I do, due to circumstance and genetics.

The tragicness of the homeless problem and the sad people that live in it makes me question the order of the universe If there is some higher power, what kind of sick joke is it to create people who are unable to help themselves?  I am in a complete state of confusion about the subject and I have no idea what a solution could be, the problem seems to overwhelming and unsolvable. To target the chronically homeless the power-law based model seems like a logical place to start.

I think on an individual level all we can do is be compassionate and sympathetic like my hippie friends. If there is an opportunity to give, then do it, and keep the heart open and loving.

Frustration.

1. I unwillingly sit in an uncomfortable, overly-squeaky computer chair and flick open my mom’s laptop grudgingly. The internet taunts me like a forlorn lover. The light blue loading bar gets bigger by fractions of millimeters and stalls. Over. And Over. Thirty minutes pass as I try coaxing it into cooperation. I think about the eight supersite activities, three newspaper articles, ten bookwork problems, and sheet of verb conjugations that I still have to do, all for stupid Spanish 4, and I want to cry. My heartbeat quickens angrily and my blood turns to liquid steel. I want to hurt something. My skin crawls with invisible irritation and I itch savagely everywhere leaving angry steaks of pink across my pale flesh. 

2. Frustration is the state of being infuriated, thwarted, and or disappointed. It often is derived from an extrinsic factor, but must be mentally succumbed to. It can build up slowly over a stretch of time, at which point a person may find themselves mentally shaken by something small, not realizing the derivation of his or her feeling has been caused by a string of events. Frustration is often the the feeling that occurs right before anger, but not quite anger itself. 

3. Frustration can be caused either by an event outside oneself, or a internal, mental problem. Externally frustration is caused often by inaction, neutrality, irksome stimuli, anything that feels out of the person’s own control. Similarly, if one feels they have failed, if one is ashamed, or feels incompetent, again this is out of the persons control, and causes frustration. After this, to become frustrated, one succumbs to his or her negative feeling, and looses the ability to problem solve creatively, tolerate pain, or control his or her mental state. The effect of frustration can be upper tier negative feelings like anger or depression. The ability to overcome momentary feelings of frustration rationally will save the pain if one succumbs to it. 

4. In The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka a prime example of frustration is illuminated. When Gregor, an average working man, wakes up to find he is a beetle, after the initial few months he is hidden by his family and left to his own devices, trapped inside his mind, he lives in a constant state of mental and physical inaction. He cannot communicate to his family, he cannot work, so he gives up hope, becomes sullen and depressed, and eventually dies. The cycle of an external stimuli (turning in to a beetle), followed by a feeling that one’s life is out of his control (inaction, inability to communicate), and the onset of worse negative feelings (depression) characterizes the cycle of frustration, but the feeling of inaction is the frustration itself. 

5. Though close in the emotional scale, anger and frustration are not one feeling. Anger is rage, when all mental inhibition is dissolved, and a person’s actions flow from them in a moment of blind fury. Frustration is the place a few steps before anger is reached, it is when some kind of internal or external stimuli is irritating the person, who feels that stimuli is out of her control. The person has not quite given up their will to remain in control of their own mind. 

Rhetorical modes.... REVEALED 
1. description
2. definition 
3. cause/ effect
4. example
5. compare/ contrast 

The Body is a Canvas?

• Meade speaks in the second person, and talks to "you." This makes the listener feel connected, and involved in the speech, and is able to put themselves into the perspective Meade is creating.
• The varied cadence and musically blunt voice infliction seems to confirm the audience's surprise about her shocking subject, as if to say, YES this is what I am doing. 
• The juxtaposition of imagery is used when Meade talks about shadows, when she paints on top of them, then the real one disappears her own shadow is "brought to light." This dark and light imagery easily allows the audience to visualize her process.
• The whimsical diction lures the audience to agree that Meade's paintings are "magic".
• Meade's sarcastic humor about her plans for after college where she would "work at a desk" makes her path to art seem much more exciting and almost inevitable. 
• "I made the tough decision of not going up to capital hill, but going down to my parent's basement." This phrase uses parallelism between the directions her life could have gone to show their stereotypical relevance to society, up is associated with success and heaven, down is associated with hell and failure. 
• Repetition of the near impossibility of "getting paint to stick to ___" emphasizes the early difficulties Meade had with her project. 
• Her comparison to her own hiding of body parts where paint was washed away to a little kid hiding hands in the pockets provides a sense of legitimacy to her art form. 

Moving Day

"HEAVE!" 

My sweaty hands frantically grip the corner of the seemingly innocent armoire as I push it out of the garage. It's my seventh moving day. Whenever I tell people I am moving, they gasp and start apologizing. I hate their pity because I actually don't mind moving. It is cleansing, and puts life in perspective a bit. Life is all change and transition, and moving is simply when the illusion of regularity is broken. I feel like I am shedding layers of unwanted skin. We are leaving behind my mom's horrible boyfriend and the memories of him that have accumulated like a layer of grime on the bathroom floor. 

Here's my mom's ex... The fedora basically sums things up.

Here is a delightful picture I took of the North
Shore of Oahu to rid yourself of the scarring image above.
If you are still as disturbed as I am, distract yourself with
this video: 

The stark yellow Penske truck lumbers slowly into our driveway. (If you need one, cause every one needs to rent a truck once and a while, here is a link: http://www.pensketruckrental.com/?CID=13735670-VQ16-c) I fling my mattress, the bed frame, my beloved bookshelf, and my worn desk into the truck. My friends and I haphazardly shove the armoire in last. Our baby cat wanders around our legs as we work, sensing the transition, hesitantly sniffing. My red Carola is stuffed with pillows and clothes from my old room and I am ready to set off. 

my roomies, yes my brother is that
annoying. 

Feeling like a part of a funeral procession, my friends pull out behind me, their cars also stuffed with our random possession, and I follow the truck as it oozes down 101. We turn in to our new townhouse and quickly unload the truck. My room is an explosion of vibrant shirts, art supplies and old pieces of homework. I push my bed into a       corner and toss my stuff in to the walk-in closet. 

Our loyal friends and family slowly trickle out and the sun drops away leaving a grandiose picture of fluffy peach and periwinkle brushstrokes. My muscles ache dully as invisible knives chink away at my spine. Stupid armoire. The AC is off and I am a hot mess. I fling myself around in bed trying to get comfortable, drenched in sweat. Mosquitoes, let in by the open doors earlier, buzz around my face triumphantly, cockily. I start thinking about Harry Potter to try to settle my mind... Wingardium Leviosa! Expecto Patronum! Finally I feel myself in that half conscious state where sleep is on the verge of  claiming me when my mom bursts into my room to grab my car keys. I give up. Around three I finally nod off.

In the morning the sky is a murky mirage of grey. I open our shiny new stainless steel fridge and pull out the leftover Thai food for breakfast. I hungrily gulp bites of pho and fried rice as I ponder what other adventures my new home has in store.