marky mark

What do you call a writer who never writes?

Thu, 22 May 2008 08:54:35 GMT

A waiter! Which is sad, since I'm not even that yet (damn outback, with your false promises).

Anyway, I felt the urge to write tonight for the first time in a while. Since I'm rusty, I'm posting the piece on LJ instead of Facebook, since I figure fewer ppl will read it here:

Christmas Cloves

Jeremy had taken to smoking cloves, and had several roundabout ways of concealing his new habit.

His chief reason for secrecy was the usual: he had no desire to hear lectures involving terms like "cancer-sticks" and "incremental suicide." As a man who had flirted with suicide on occasion, he had no qualms about this consequence, and besides found cloves to be a more pleasant method of killing himself than those he had previously tested.

There were other reasons he kept quiet. For one, he didn't much like being associated with the typical image of the clove-smoker as either a goth kid or a tortured artist. To be sure, he understood why cloves tended to appeal to that aesthetic - his favorite brand came in sleek black packaging that set it apart from the dull white cigarettes everyone else smoked.

Still, this image was completely dissonant from the one he had constructed around his cloves. Jeremy had once heard one of his coworkers distastefully say that cloves tasted like "smoking a christmas tree," and ever since had felt a little bit of holiday warmth anytime he took a puff.

Jeremy had one other reason for keeping mum, one he couldn't fully articulate.

He had begun to fear that if he told anybody about his cloves, he would become a social smoker. This, he felt, would make the meditative ritual he had built around his smoke somehow less sacred. The ritual went as follows: Between 1 and 3 am, Jeremy would slink downstairs, pick up his cloves from the hole under the rightmost cushion of his nana's old sofa, his special smoking jacket from the cubbyhole behind his dad's closet, and take a brisk walk to the prairie behind his house. Only when he'd made it to the prairie would he pull out a clove, and then only one for the night.

And then, all would be perfectly still and perfectly silent.

Jeremy had found just the right spot in the prairie so that he was far enough from his suburban subdivision to make out any distinct light or sound, but still close enough that the light pollution kept the sky free of stars on even the clearest nights. Jeremy knew that if he walked a few steps further from his spot, the sky would begin to gain the inky black of a country night, and a few steps beyond that would become complicated with constellations. Only in his spot was the dark warm.

In the daytime, Jeremy would be the first to agree with those decrying the ills of nicotine and light pollution, but in this his most private of hours, the two evils colluded to lend the night a certain elegant simplicity he found absolutely intoxicating.

Mon, 08 Oct 2007 04:32:18 GMT

These are two songs I'm working on for the ECR project:

"Buckle" (chorus paraphrased from Gerard Manley Hopkins)

You have heard the calling of a keening bell
And you have known its shattering all too well
So you’ve locked yourself in this chapel
And you keep on pulling the rope
You keep glancing up at the steeple
Still holding on to your hope

But you don’t need to hold out anymore
You need to know

That if you just buckle, the fire that will break free
Will be a billion times more lovely,
More dangerous
So buckle, and the fire that will break free
Will be a billion times more lovely,
More dangerous
So buckle

You’ve been swaddled in robes
You’ve been wrapped up in tombs
You’ve been dressed up in wounds
And strapped to a throne (2x)

And if the sky doesn’t open up for you
If you need to walk with us a little longer
If the earth chains you to the broken and the crude
If you must feel the weakness of men and never get stronger

Then what can you do, oh
What can you do
But buckle and let the world flow through you?

So buckle, and the fire that will break free
Will be a billion times more lovely,
More dangerous
So buckle, and the fire that will break free
Will be a billion times more lovely,
More dangerous
So buckle

Countdown

almost inaudible conversations - we hear street directions . . . what sounds like a police interrogation

These city streets number a countdown
This city's heartbeat can't be found
And from the way these skyscrapers hunch together,
you'd swear you see a family huddle tight against the cold night air

But instead these city streets number a countdown

So city are you etherized yet?
Because before long they'll use your ashes to seed the clouds
So you rain down on us now and water the ground and water the ground . . .

Tell me, before your morphine dripped dry did you dream
Of buildings regressing in stops and fits,
Windows shrinking to war slits

Tell me, before your morphine dripped dry did you dream
Of emaciated skylines
Cinched two belt notches too tight

Tell me, before your morphine dripped dry did you dream
Of harbors draped in velveteen
A knife ripping into the seams
It's cutting straight through to the plastiscine,
A knife ripping into the seams

Before long, they'll use your ashes to seed the clouds

And if we were to spring full-formed
From the earth, still wanting more,
Would you choke us in concrete again?
Break our knees before they bend?(repeat)

simultaneously:
a knife ripping into the seams
(we are the wreckage)

You've left us the wreckage
You've left us.
You've left us a knife ripping into the seams

They've used your ashes to seed the clouds, so will you rain down on us now and water the ground?
Water the ground, because we're ripening now, ripening now, we're ripening now

So cut us down.

Tue, 03 Jul 2007 09:20:30 GMT

collage project (translation: prepare for a choppy read)

Sat, 05 May 2007 19:17:02 GMT

This is based on a true story, and regardless what I may have turned it into, the source material's pretty damn interesting. I'd highly recommend reading the articles I quote from in the collage. The Rolling Stone one (surprisingly) is especially well-written. What's really cool, though, is how each article has a different take on the facts of the case. I really love those inconsistencies, since I'm trying to include Nate Ybanez as one of the main characters in a novel I'm writing for my senior thesis, and the contradictions inply that his story goes deeper than a quick skim of just one of the articles would suggest.

Anyway, like I said on myspace,

Feedback Loop

Note:
Bolded lines taken from
http://www.rockymountainnews.com/drmn/local/article/0,1299,DRMN_15_4094134,00.html

Italic lines taken from
http://www.rollingstone.com/politics/story/12540473/can_nate_ybanez_ever_be_forgiven/8

Strikethrough lines taken from
http://www.westword.com/2005-07-07/news/headed-for-trouble/

Nate Ybanez knows something of harshness.
***
Ybanez said “. . . hope is a weakness. You open yourself up to failure and you feel pain."
***
And the maestro clears his throat and the crowd whoops:

“Well now, this is one of those old-fashioned protest songs, just like my old friend Arlo Guthrie used to sing, and my not-so-good friend Bob Dylan used to sing ‘em too. And just like that Emmett Till song Bob used to do, this one’s somethin’ y’all need to listen to. This one’s for Nate . . .”

And the crowd’s hollerin’ somethin’ fierce now, drowning their leader right out, till
with a mighty yawp, the maestro starts to jangle his guitar:

“He closes his eyes to meditate,
because he's forgotten how to pray;
Another thing that wasn't ingrained,
no matter what she used to say 
while leaving her imprint in his skin,
but it never sunk into the bone
he'd learned his presence didn't
stop her complaints of being alone
so how could he listen, he'll never listen to what she, she. . .
But no more. These days as long as he's empty he's free
And maybe he can forget . . .

(Now’s the chorus! Now y’all can join me, sing along!. . .)

That it's been seven years gone
And who knows how many more to come
It's been seven years gone
And who knows how many more to come”

…and they belt along in a joyous chorus fit to shout down Babylon
***
"If this is my fate . . . I'd rather just cease to exist."
***
Nate’s eyes never matched the Buddha’s. Both were blank, yes, but the Buddha never stared walleyed and fish-cold. Nate folded his legs over and over themselves in an intersecting overlapping infinite loop. Nate pursed his forefinger and thumb together and let the other digits flip out like petals.

Nate opened one eye in a squint, letting it flit between his form and the Buddha’s.
***
He has on his back a stairway of scars
***
His eye traced the intertwining of the angry white lines on his back with the bloodied black prison inking. His eye traced the fine jade indentations on the Buddha, and mentally superimposed the two tracings.
***
Some were put there by his mother, Julie, a strict evangelical
***
All similarities remained superficial.
***
Others came courtesy of his father, Roger, an ex-soldier
***

“ . . .Nate?”

Every sound wobbled in on drunken legs it shared with incongruous siamese twins. A train’s rumbling in Berlin bled into the Red Line’s clack-clack-clack before whooshing through a tunnel in the heart of the Rockies.

“ . . . . Nate, . . . honey?”

Honey. Nate let a sleepy smile slip out the corner of his mouth. Warm gooey honey . . .

“Nate! Get up!”

No more honey for Nate.

“Are you packed yet? You had better be packed, Nathan Ybanez!”

Nate looked down into his suitcase. Nonexistent-not-allowed Power Ranger action figures? Check. Nonexistent-not-allowed GameBoy? Check. Nonexistent-not-allowed Mini-TV? Check.

Good to go.

***

“Nate, you’re all I’ve got.”

Nate flipped to 4. “Red Roof Inn would like to remind you about our excelle . . .” 23 “Tonight, on Sportscenter, Vlade Divac . . . ” 99 “To order, simply dial 9 for the desk, and ‘College Coeds 5’ will be added to your bill for the night . . . ”

“Nate, did you hear me?”

“To order, simply dial 9 . .”

“Did you hear me Nate? You’re all I’ve got, and I’m all you’ve got”

“ . .added to your bill . .”

“Nate, you know that you’re not allowed to watch that, change the channel”

“the desk, and ‘College. .”

Julie paused. Brushed her hair out of her eye. Pursed her lips. Cocked her head to the side. Smiled.

“You’re getting older Nate, aren’t you?”

“To order, simply dial 9 for the desk . . .”

“That’s what you want now, isn’t it?”

“To order, simply dial 9 for the desk, and ‘College Coeds 5’ will be added to your bill for the night.”

“That’s what you want now that you’re older, isn’t it Nate? It’s okay, you don’t even have to answer. In fact it’s better that you don’t answer. You just stay quiet, okay, Nate, honey?”

Julie rose from her bed. She took the two steps to Nate’s bed.

“You’re all I’ve got Nate” her breath cooed against him “and I’m all you’ve got” Nate flinched “you’re all I’ve got” closer “and” half-touch “I’m all you’ve got”

“and Coll-”

“turn it off Nate, no College Coeds. I’M” touch “ALL” fulltouch “YOU’VE” half-gasp “GOT”

“Mom . . .”

“What’d I say, Nate?”

“Mom.”

“Don’t talk, Nate”

Nate shuddered.

She was inhaling it “youreallivegot” and spitting it out “andimallyouvegot”

***

In 1998, Nate snapped and brutally killed his mother when she foiled his attempt to run away.

***

Erik-would-help-and-Brett-would-clean

Nate soothed himself with the mantra.

Erik-would-help-and-Brett-would-clean

***
~~As Erik stepped through the door,~~
***
Erik smiled like a surfer, blonde and confident, so of course he was the leading man, even if he played the bass. Brett and Nate would form a flying V around him, like the Mighty Ducks or the cover of a Justice League comic maybe, because it felt like the V kept going past the three of them, like they had legions in perfect repeating sequence backing them up.
***
~~out of the corner of his eye he saw Nate running toward Julie.~~
***
Brett didn’t play rhythm guitar, he personified it; always chugging along, a smooth consistent counterpoint as Erik’s left-hand man.
***
~~High overhead, Nate was holding fireplace tongs.~~
***
Nate was quiet, but that was okay; his guitar did the talking for him. It could scream a solo up on the twelfth fret. It could wail.

(youreallivegot)

Nate would always start each song without playing a note. He’d just turn up the dials and stand really close to the amp . . .

(andimallyouvegot)

. . . and the feedback would screech out, louder and higher and louder and higher in a gigantic
wall of sound.
***
~~Erik closed the door.~~
*
*
*
[Nate] was tried and found guilty in less than two days and sentenced to life in prison without parole.
***

Being sent to prison, Ybanez said, was a "relief."

english geek debate question

Tue, 01 May 2007 03:41:57 GMT

so, for all the english geeks on here:

I just read "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot (that's the one w/ the line about the world ending w/ a whimper, in case you were wondering), and I gotta say, I was really disappointed by my man TS

now, don't get me wrong, I'm a huge Eliot fan. "Prufrock" is still my favorite poem of all time. But in "The Hollow Men," I feel like Eliot too often dips into bland generalities. Here's a sample of the poem for reference:

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Now, I won't say that portions such as this are meaningless, just that I feel like he could have found a more interesting way of saying what he needed to say, especially considering his usual high standard. As an example, consider the potency of the line "In the room the women come and go,/Talking of Michelangelo" in encapsulating the desperate attempt at class by the prostitutes of "Prufrock". Admittedly, in the segment above, Eliot is dealing w/ very broad subject matter, which makes his job as a poet harder. Still, I kinda expected better from him.

So, what opinions do you all have?

Can a poet deal in generalities but still be successful?

Or do generalities by nature damage a poem?

new music phase

Fri, 06 Apr 2007 19:49:41 GMT

so, I'm done with what I'll call my "first draft" of music (i.e. simple, acoustic-driven songs). I just went and counted through the various myspaces I have my "first drafts" up on, and found out that those "first drafts" have been listened to about 5000 times (w/o any promotion, so, you know, could be worse). I've recorded enough to give anyone an ep who's interested.

But after this ep, no more first drafts.

Starting this summer, I'm gonna concentrate on an entirely different sort of music than I've been recording before. I'm not quite sure what it's gonna sound like, but I know it's going to be more complex than 1 acoustic guitar pounding power chords and me belting some pop stuff. Cuz I'm tired of that.

So, stay tuned to www.myspace.com/heavenforsheep for further details

not that any of you will read this old entry, but . . .

Sat, 17 Mar 2007 21:33:54 GMT

. . . if you're bored and stumble across it, I've deleted what used to be here and posted the version of the story I submitted to class. enjoy.

Object Lesson
Or, “Stanley’s Casual Casualty”

Stanley decided to take time to listen to the ground, as long as he was down there. No buffalo or white men coming. The furnace, though, sounded far more regal than expected. It murmured like a symphony for whales, playing the floorboards at frequencies Stanley could feel more than hear. The furnace had always frightened him as a child; it had had a bad habit of clicking on with an ominous rumble right at the quietest moments of nights when only he was awake.

The furnace had never realized how ominous it sounded, and rather had considered itself to have damn good comic timing. It tried to explain this to Stanley, but Stanley wasn’t listening that closely. He was stalling, not having a revelation.

***

Stanley had always been the type that enjoyed hearing about men with names like “Sartre” or “Kierkegaard” or “Nietzsche,” but had never been the type that enjoyed reading thick tomes of philosophy. He was enamored of the romantic notion that, at some point, foreign men with intimidating beards and hard-to-pronounce names had thought really deep thoughts and figured out the answers to all the really hard questions.

It didn’t particularly matter to Stanley that the answers these men produced often contradicted each other. Just so long as he knew someone else had the answers, he could enjoy his morning coffee or late night talk show without being bothered by existential quandaries.

***

1436 Whitehall Lane; Apartment 7B, 1436 Whitehall Lane; Apartment 7B, 1436 White-

The hitman would always recite the addresses rhythmically to help him remember them. He had the bad luck to discover the success of this device at the ripe old age of 27. He kept telling Ron-at-the-gas-station that he would have aced high school history if he had known to put a beat to the Gettysburg Address. Ron-at-the-gas-station thought the hitman could make some real money by applying this skill and doing a musical children’s show. Anytime Ron-at-the-gas-station would say so, the hitman would picture himself in a purple dinosaur suit, tell Ron-at-the-gas-station to quit being a fag, and leave without paying for his beef jerky.

Once home, though, the hitman would always give the idea some thought. He secretly longed to be in a profession that allowed him to have a paper trail. But if it hadn’t been for the “no paper trail” rule, he never would’ve gotten so good with his beats. Que sera.

This particular address was giving the hitman some problems. The beat for the address had come almost instantly, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the beat was too good, it drew all the attention, reducing "1436 Whitehall Lane" to a senseless jumble of words. What Smells Like Teen Spirit was to guitar riffs, Whitehall Lane was to beats, which meant that it was just as hard to remember if “36” came before “14” as it was to remember if “albino” came before “mosquito.”

***

The TV was whining loudly about not being turned on for its eleven o’clock talk. It had been good and quiet all day, and not pulled its cable at all, but dammit, it was eleven fifteen, and it needed to pull info desperately. A pull from channel five sounded refreshing, but it was willing to settle for a fuzzy pull from channel fifteen at this point. Was this any way to treat man’s best friend? The TV was sure Stanley knew better than to sleep before letting the TV talk so it could pull.

The bed knew something was wrong too. At this time of night, Stanley was supposed to be pressed warmly against it, cozied up to the corners where its ruffles used to be. (Stanley had thought the ruffles too feminine, and had cut them off. It took a while for the bed to forgive Stanley for that.) At this time of night, Stanley definitely was not supposed to be sprawled on the floor. Except when . . .

The TV and bed glared at the refrigerator. The refrigerator whirred out a shrug. Its wine cooler was still fully stocked.

***

Stanley was having a number of revelations, such as why he never got a dog, and what the source of that high-pitched whine he occasionally heard was. He was also coming to the realization that the men with hard-to-pronounce names and intimidating beards may have put their time to better use getting a good shave than thinking their deep thoughts. They may have learned something from listening to their razors.

***

The door looked annoyingly well kept. The hitman smiled at this. He now had an excuse. Too often, the hitman would find himself knocking at doors that looked like they could have been described, in some glorious past life, as "decrepit." The hitman always felt bad knocking at such doors, knowing they shielded tenants with very good reasons for not paying. But not Mr. Whitehall Lane. Mr. Whitehall Lane would be easy. The hitman let him know this by rapping out the beat that had led him there a bit more sharply than necessary:

White*knock*hall*knock* Lane*KNOCK*

“Alright, I got it, you don’t have to be so loud-” Stanley opened his door.
“Fifteen hundred”
“. . . what?”

The hitman sighed. Why did they always act oblivious?

“Look, just give me the fifteen hundred.”
“Dollars?”
“Yeah, of course friggin’ dollars. And you should be thankful that it’s fifteen hundred, instead of pullin’ this-”
“What? Do I know you? Whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not interested, sorry -”

Stanley attempted to shut the door. Stanley failed.

Stanley had never been pummeled rhythmically before.

For that matter, the hitman had never pummeled anyone rhythmically before, but he just couldn’t get Whitehall Lane out of his head.

White*bam*hall*bam* Lane*BAM* Apartment*ba-BAM bam* 7B*tha-thunk BAM*

And then came the hitman’s favorite part: the techno breakdown, when the beat collapsed back on itself . . .

Fo-Fo-Four-*record scratch*Fourteen . . .

And the beat just kept looping, thumping away in stroke with the hitman’s fists. And it thumped far too loud for the hitman to hear Stanley’s cries. And it thumped far too loud for the hitman to hear the advice the boss gave him: “never beat too hard – dead men can’t pay.” And Jim usually always heard the advice, because it rang over everything, chained to his ears as a reminder of where he’d sunk to, but now there was just the thumping, a gigantic bass backbeat to the thwack of his fists, and the hitman was too immersed in it to notice the feeble hits Stanley would dish back, they were just reverb, just an echo of Whitehall Lane, amplifying the beat like it should be amplified, because it was a perfect beat, it really was, and now it could fill a stadium, it had a stadium echo . . . but then Stanley’s hits stopped. And the echo shut off.

And for a little bit, the hitman hit harder to compensate. Because if he hit hard enough, he could fill a stadium all by himself, he was convinced.

But soon, it became clear. Without the echo, it just wasn’t enough.

***

Stanley was stalling. He figured that even a man gone as mad as this one clearly was would stop hitting a man limp on the ground before long. And while he was limp on the ground, he could recuperate, and then hit back properly. He’d listen to the furnace’s symphony for a just a little while longer (why ever hadn’t he noticed that before?). And then he’d . . . he’d . . . what was it he was going to do again? It suddenly seemed unimportant.

***

The hitman was smart. He used only his hands, and he wore gloves every time. He knew how important it was to be inconspicuous after a job, and would drive away from a scene slowly. Every time. Which was why he didn’t speed the hell out of that parking lot like he wanted to. Which was why he was driving slowly enough to read clearly the number on the mailbox.

41436 Whitehall Lane.

Damn techno breakdown. The hitman swore and reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper.

2515 Grand Avenue.

He would keep this one simple. He needed to keep it simple this time. Maybe a punk beat . . .

***

Stanley was having another revelation: he could hear the lifeless so well because he was no longer able to hear the living.

Having made this realization, Stanley did not worry much over the fact that he was now, by most definitions, dead. He did not wonder why he wasn’t in heaven, or hell, or reincarnated. He didn’t wonder what came next, or how much longer he had before next came. After all, Stanley did not have an intimidating beard, and his name was Stanley, so he figured that such thoughts were none of his business. Instead, these were his thoughts:

That TV really is annoyingly loud. How did I not notice that before? I wonder if it can hear me, now that I can hear it? I’m going to try a field test: Hey! Hey, you! . . . TV! Shut up!!

The TV began to sulk.

Fri, 13 Oct 2006 14:24:12 GMT

i should be coming home tomorrow, just as a btw

Mon, 14 Aug 2006 09:21:26 GMT

Tell me all about yourself

1. Name:

2. Age/Birthday:

3. Single or Taken:

4. Favorite Movie:

5. Favorite Song:

6. Favorite Band/Rapper/Artist:

7. Favorite Book/Comic Book:

8. Tattoos and/or Piercings:

9. Favorite TV Show:

10. Favorite Video Game/Board Game:

11. Do we know each other outside of Livejournal?

12. Would you give me a kidney?

13. Tell me one odd/interesting fact about you:

14. If you could change anything about your current life, would you?

15. Will you post this so I can fill it out for you?

16. Picture?

Sat, 05 Aug 2006 16:58:55 GMT

I'm updating from the ATT Oasis tent at LOLLAPALOOZA

How friggin awesome is that?
I wasn't even planning on going to lollapalooza, I just got in for free, thanks to my amaaaazing friend Ana. She had a pass from Thursday before it all started, because her band got to take a backstage tour, so we used that to get in, going all covert style.
The security is so lax here in the morning, they didn't even look at us, we just walked in.

Gnarls Barkley in 4 more hours.

woot!

Fri, 26 May 2006 20:28:20 GMT

hellooooo lj world, long time no chat, how are y'all?
good?
lovely

I missed the whole '06 class graduating thing, hope that was/is awesome for all of you
I met you guys when you were freshman. . . so weird

In other random news, I've been told that I come across as androgynous
what do you all think? true/not true? (don't worry, i won't get offended either way, just curious)

aaaaaaaaaaannnnd much love to you all
byebye

Sun, 07 May 2006 23:30:13 GMT

so, 2 things
1. i'm coming home tomorrow
2. i lost my id, don't have money for a new one, and so the cafeteria has decided to starve me - anyone feel like feeding me?

Sun, 30 Apr 2006 23:59:13 GMT

So, it's really important that all of you visit www.invisiblechildren.com, a site devoted to help the children of Uganda, where the genocide occuring is worse than anywhere else in the world, including Sudan, and www.savedarfur.org, a site devoted to helping Sudan.

On that note, this is my most recent Daily Herald article:

The pictures shocked me. In one, there was a boy who could not have been more than seven years old, and his face was covered in blood, his eyes wide with horror.
To my surprise, Deepti was apologetic
"I'm sorry; you need to do your work. I just needed to show someone."
Lake Forest College Freshman Deepti Sharma was showing me pictures of the devastation in her homeland of Nepal, a country home to political unrest that exploded in riotous protests two weeks ago.
"The situation in Nepal was always bad, but the real violence started April 6th. I found out about it through Nepalese news, which I check regularly," said Sharma. "Once I found out, I searched through the New York Times. A lot of people read the New York Times, and I wanted to see if they thought it was significant. I found it, but it was buried in the International section."
Seeing these pictures, I did not understand how the world could be so oblivious; how I could be so oblivious. But once again, Sharma was understanding.
"I don't blame Americans for not knowing about the violence in Nepal; Nepal is not necessarily politically significant in the global arena. Not knowing about Nepal is fine," said Sharma.
But she went on to say, "That is not the ignorance I am worried about. At one point I heard an American ask an international student what state Russia is in. That is not fine. Not knowing about the situation in Sudan, or Rwanda, or Uganda, or Israel and Palestine, about human rights violations around the world, is not fine."
Sharma's assessment was frighteningly accurate. Even at an institution like Lake Forest College, which prides itself on its cultural diversity, ignorance regarding international issues is pervasive. A recent talk I had with a classmate at a party helped illuminate this problem to me.
This classmate had come to college with an idealistic view of the college student as a catalyst for political and social change. She had gotten involved in the College Democrats, hoping to make a contribution, hoping to make a difference. However, her hopes were quickly quashed. At the time I talked to her, she was convinced that her efforts were fruitless because college students simply did not care.
I find this apathy to be unacceptable. Unacceptable because I believe that my classmate's initial view of a college student was not simply a romantic notion. One can simply look at incidences such as the tragedy at Kent State, when college students lost their lives while protesting the Vietnam War, to see how deeply college students once cared.
And though one hopes for better results than those at Kent State, it is right that college students should care. For better or for worse, college is a time of experimentation and self-discovery. College students are old enough to begin to understand the world around them, and young enough to not be set in their ways. In other words, there is no better group to serve as the pioneers of positive social or political change.
If, then, the most dynamic age group in the country has grown apathetic enough to destroy the hopes of my idealistic classmate, the strains of apathy in America must truly run deep. In the words of Sharma, this indifference "is not fine."
We must not hold the illusion that we have progressed enough to be comfortable in our apathy, when time after time, this illusion has been shattered. In 1993, movie audiences wept over Schindler's List, and did nothing to stop the genocide in Rwanda. In 2004, movie audiences wept over Hotel Rwanda, and did nothing to stop the genocide in Darfur.
The genocide in Darfur is, in fact, ongoing. So far, more than 400,000 have been killed. This tragedy is immeasurable.
But something can still be done. The same classmate who was positive that college students simply did not care anymore had a table outside of the cafeteria last week with postcards that students could sign as part of the "Million Voices for Darfur" campaign. These same postcards can be filled out online at www.savedarfur.org.
We must not be apathetic. We must be aware. Because it's not just Germany. Because it's not just Rwanda. Because it's not just Darfur.

Fri, 14 Apr 2006 19:06:17 GMT

heeey
so, sorry to those of you i haven't called back or written back or etcetered (real word?) back this week, it's kinda been a crazy week.
aaaand i should really be writing my paper
buhbye now

Sat, 11 Mar 2006 05:52:31 GMT

i'm hooooooooome

let's hang out

Tue, 28 Feb 2006 19:41:08 GMT

so, i got kicked out of class for the first time in my life today, and it couldn't have come at a worse time. i haven't been able to sleep for three days, so i couldn't stay awake in class, and the teacher kicked me out, all dramatic style, me having to pack up and do the silent walk in front of everyone.

i've only slept once in the last three days, and then it was a two hour nap - during which i missed psych class for the umpteenth time and a flash board meeting

yesterday, my computer crashed right before i finished my lab to turn in, i get in to class, get my last lab handed back to me - a D, w/ the note "why was this turned in late?" even after having a long talk w/ the professor about why it was turned in late and him saying it was ok. so i didn't even bother explaining about the new lab

this morning i got my midterm back in english - a c fucking minus. no matter what else i fuck up, i could always at least ace english

last night exchanged a long series of messages w/ ethan helm about faith - he was really nice to try and help out, but i somehow feel more depressed

so this is probably just because of the lack of sleep thing, but i feel damn close to a nervous breakdown

Mon, 20 Feb 2006 22:52:16 GMT

okay, today officially sucks all kinds of ass
found out i'm failing a class in my major because it has the most ridiculous absences policy in the history of ever
found out a family friend of ours died a week ago and my dad didn't even bother to tell me
he died while serving in the marines - yet another reason to fucking hate george w.
this kid was one of the most fundamentally decent kids i'd ever met - he was only a year older than me, i can still remember hanging out in his basement, playing tony hawk and listening to the smashing pumkins
must february bite every year?

Mon, 20 Feb 2006 03:12:26 GMT

so
i'm writing a philosophy paper now on the question "does the soul exist?" and my head is spinning
partly because i'm curious and partly because i don't feel like writing this by myself, how would you all answer that question?

mmmm, delicious entries

Fri, 17 Feb 2006 19:47:33 GMT

so, opening night was last night. i think it went fairly well. would've liked a better audience, though. even though it was sold out, it was a really low-energy audience, laughing and clapping at the wrong places and such
ah well, 1 down, 7 to go
which means i'll soon be only really busy, instead of really super busy, so i'll actually get to talk to some of you more often - won't that be revolutionary?

Wed, 08 Feb 2006 02:13:08 GMT

ok, for those that want to come to the tempest, the number for tickets is 847-735-5216. They're 3 dollars for students, 7 dollars general admission
ok, ben collapse now (being in four performance groups at once was really a retarded idea)

Wed, 25 Jan 2006 06:41:52 GMT

So, today was interesting, what w/ the no sleep for a long time thing. I was told I looked either dead or like a crack addict a few times, so now I know how to prepare for zombie/rock star roles.
mm, mm, good
i'm pretty positive my richter professor is secretly planning to kill me. and not just because I kept sleeping in her class today well she was talking to me. there's just been a "kill ben lundquist" glint in her eye since day one.
anyway
these past couple days, tried out the casting thing from the other side of the table, which was awkward, since i knew almost everyone auditioning, and was friends w/ a few of them. so, yeah. if i don't cast any of you, i still love you, i just didn't think you fit the roles (which is prob a good thing, since three of the characters could be thought of as guilty of murder) or someone else wanted you in their play.
me stop talking
me start doing work
byebye

EDIT:
oh
wait
for those of you that don't know and would want to, since it's coming up and all:

THE TEMPEST
Feb. 16th, 17th, 23rd, and 24th at only 8pm
Feb. 18th and 25th at 2pm and 8pm
All performances at:
Hixon Hall
Lake Forest College
555 N. Sheridan Rd
Some Zipcode, IL

way too far away for you guys to see, but for those who have asked and haven't gotten a straight answer, there it is
the end

Fri, 30 Dec 2005 22:49:25 GMT

Because I follow directions blindly:
Post your name and...

1. i'll respond with something random about you.
2. i'll tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.
3. i'll pick a color that associates with you.
4. i'll say something that makes sense to only you and me.
5. i'll tell you my first/clearest memory of you.
6. i'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. i'll ask you something that i've always wondered about you.
8. if i do this for you, you must post this on yours

Mon, 26 Dec 2005 06:19:21 GMT

so, super late notice, but i think i've already talked to some of you about this - if i said my house was open for anyone who wanted to hang out new year's eve, would anyone be interested? it would be completely open invite, so anyone who wanted to stop by would be welcome, and if they wanted to bring friends that'd be cool too. i won't call it a party, because it's too late for that, but anyone who want's to hang out (esp. those who were like, "hey is new year's eve at your house again?" is welcome to come.

2712 Cedar Glade RD
say 9ish

Mon, 12 Dec 2005 17:09:36 GMT

ways I have screwed up this week:
-studied the wrong chapter for a test in oceanography
-forgot my book for the open-book portion of the ancient and medieval literature final
-was (am) late on two papers for personal lives observed
-missed a train back from chicago, thus came home late at night the night before an 8:30 am final

despite all this, it's still possible for me to get straight a's. it's also still possible for me to get straight f's, but i try not to think about that.

ah, college

Thu, 08 Dec 2005 19:49:28 GMT

Stolen from people because I am a thief. So, this thing is supposed to sum up your lj year. Just go back to the first entry from each month and copy the first line (a rule which I am breaking by pasting the first thought instead of the first line)
January: None

February: None

March: boo

. . . . . . . . . . scared?

April: xanga isn't working. thus, i am presently eating your souls from this location.

May: the last part of that last entry was a bit too mean. i feel bad. i'm sorry.

June: guess what?
ben is officially a professional writer. like, paid and everything. see, look:

July: a while back, i was supposed to list my five favorite movies in a survey.

August: It is official. I am never home. In a way though, that's great, because it means I have had stuff to keep myself busy with, rather than just sitting on my ass.

September: possibly coming home this weekend

October: $36,000
February 16

November: it's funny how my luck seems to come in strings.

December: oh dear lordy

Conclusion: my lj is utterly pointless