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The disgruntled woman I was when I posted here earlier today is far more contented now, after having learned I passed the screening process necessary to become a volunteer with Friends For Life, the local animal rescue organization. Those close to me know animals are second only to writing when it comes to my deepest passions. So naturally, I'm very excited for the opportunity to give back to the community by working to improve the lives of some local furry creatures who, in turn, end up improving my life as well.
If only the problems of the world could be resolved with such beautiful simplicity.
Like countless other people across the country, I've become something of a rabid newshound these past several years, mostly since the double-whammy of 2000's eruption of violence in the Middle East and botched U.S. presidential election. My main sources are online news, as I no longer have cable (and therefore no longer watch TV), the Sunday New York Times (when I have the FIVE dollars necessary to buy it 3,000 miles away from its point of production), NPR and The Nation, which I'd never once read before moving here.
Lately, though, I have found myself more angered, disturbed and disquieted by the news than ever before. An overwhelming sense of foreboding tends to outweigh the positive aspects of keeping well-informed about the world. I imagine this is nothing new, but still, it gives me a headache.
In the wake of the assassination of Hamas founder Yassin, I'm concerned for my significant extended family in Israel, who could potentially suffer the consequences of Sharon's aggressiveness. I reacted with tears to the mournful news of terrorist attacks in Spain. And, for the first time since the start of unnecessary war in Iraq, I reached an alarming level of anger and sadness over the news today of Iraqis dragging the charred bodies of American contractors through town before hanging them from a bridge, while five U.S. soldiers died in a nearby bombing. JESUSMARYANDFUCKINGJOSEPH what are we still doing there?!?!?
Don't even get me started on Richard Clarke and the whole 9/11 commission mess. Yes, I believe Americans (and the world) have a right to know what our government might have known before the attacks and how they handled it. Do I believe the attacks could have been prevented? Absolutely not. Had we nailed Osama bin Laden during the Clinton Administration, the sandal-wearing bastard still had thousands of followers willing to do his bidding and probably would have attacked with even more ferocity had we eliminated their leader.
What interests and troubles me more is what happened immediately after the attacks of September 11. When U.S. airspace was closed to commercial traffic, why were dozens of influential Saudis (including bin Laden family members) flown home on American planes, no questions asked? How it is possible for our government not to be facing serious consequences for organizing the exodus and for having gone to such lengths to cover it up (i.e. initially asking U.S. pilots and airports to deny it happened, making it public knowledge only after someone -- possibly inadvertently -- acknowledged it)? Months ago (see "Bush Kisses Saudi Ass"), I mentioned the Vanity Fair article that had alerted me to the matter. After that expose, I was sure the downright shocking action our government had taken would be talked about more widely, but it did little besides stir up some water-cooler talk. It's nothing short of terrifying the way this sickening bit of information has gone all but unnoticed (or worse, unchallenged) by Americans. Sure, put Condi on the stand -- we are entitled to her testimony. But, while it's important to know what was going on pre-September 11, someone please ask the lying bitch what went down on September 12 and 13!
I couldn't find the Vanity Fair article online, but here's an excerpt from a revealing New York Times article on the subject.
My close friend Tyler is in Estonia at present, having left his adopted city of New York just ten days after my own departure. We have kept in contact via the magic of email and have each discovered, after numerous lengthy back-and-forth messages, that -- although we are on separate continents, engaging in profoundly different experiences -- we are both dealing in similar ways with our extrication from New York.
From one of T's most recent emails:
"I've read your missive several times and with each perusal I see more and more how we've become birds of a feather in self-imposed exile from our beloved New York City."
We have been commiserating on our mutual appreciation for the solitude and sense of peace we've each found in our new environs, while also coming to terms with missing the "inherent excitement and grittiness" of the city. After a number of weeks away, we have each surmised, on our own, what I've always suspected: that there's simply no place like it on Earth.
T's take on it:
"As a New Yorker I've always felt that in my own way I contributed to the city itself - that without me NYC wouldn't be the same. As she chugs on despite my absence part of me wishes I could be there having the adventures that can be had nowhere else. "
While I'll admit to feeling a melancholy twinge upon reading that, I don't necessarily subscribe to the notion that New York is the only place in the world in which extraordinary adventures are intrinsically possible. On the contrary, my own life experience has taught me that adventures are to be had just about anywhere -- it's purely a matter of what an individual is inspired to pursue. However, there is something about the concrete jungle that pulses and breathes its own life into you, dropping unforgettable experiences in your lap whether or not you seek them out. That's what I miss about New York, and what may bring me back there someday, armed with a better education (literally and figuratively) and a deeper understanding of the world that exists outside the walls of Gotham.
The fifty-foot eucalyptus trees surrounding the property have been swaying with increasing ferocity since the wee hours of this morning, when I happened to be awake after a disturbing series of dreams. Not nightmares, exactly, but those strangely vivid narratives from which you awake startled and find it impossible to get back to sleep, your mind racing, heart pounding. After a rather turbulent night, I've woken to a rainy, shadowy morning, not ideal for a planned hike in Redwood National Park.
I have become something of an early riser since moving here, and though I miss the often-productive -- or simply fun and relaxing -- late-night hours I enjoyed keeping in New York, there's something very satisfying about being awake each day before 8am, especially without specific reason to be up at what I previously considered an ungodly hour.
I used to find that my dreams were most vivid on those mornings I stayed in bed late, waking up and going back to sleep over and over, attempting to avoid the day; to avoid dealing with my emotions, at least for a while. Yet now that I no longer sleep into the late-morning hours, I have debunked my own theory. Self-debunking: it's the wave of the future! Perhaps it's getting adjusted to a new environment or climate or once again becoming accustomed to the sun rising inland, instead of over the ocean. Perhaps just a result of sleeping less. Who knows? What I know is that my previous theories on dreams -- which I'd held since early adulthood -- provided that my most vivid, lucid dreams appeared in those repeated periods of light sleep, as opposed to deep, REM sleep. Now, I have reason to question that.
The premise of the new Charlie Kaufman-penned film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is enormously appealing to me: the idea of clearing one's brain of painful memories. Not to say I'd ever choose to undergo this procedure, even if I could -- however painful the memories may be, they're the framework of my past and I'd hate to lose them. Still, on those intense nights when lying awake, tossing and turning, desperate to put injurious thoughts out of my head, I would very willingly indulge in a quick, semi-permanent brain erase.
My new personal mission is to outlaw standardized testing as we know it. The first time I took the SAT in the 11th grade, I became aware what an unnecessary evil these tests can be, especially after having gotten a lower score the second time I took the exam (which was after a six-week SAT prep course, for which I was, understandably, refunded my money). I managed to score fairly well on the SAT, but still felt insulted by its nature. Why can't a student's grades and writing skills be enough to qualify him or her for college? Why must the standardized testing Nazis attempt to shove everyone into one neat little assessment package, like eggs in a carton, to essentially pit them against each other based on their test-taking skills as opposed to more admirable, telling merits like how well they can form a sentence or whether they've done time on Riker's Island?
I wondered that same thing last Friday, when subjected to enough analogies to confound William Safire, along with all the other pointless multiple choice questions, under both the verbal and mathematical umbrella. I understand the exam is designed to judge how logically your mind works, but does someone with a B.A. in English who hasn't studied an iota of math since 1989 really need to prove advanced comprehension of algebra in order to gain admittance to a Master's program in English? Somehow I think it's a conspiracy, one I'll bet people like Schwarzenegger and Oprah and Mike Bloomberg are all in on; one I'll get to the bottom of, dammit!
That said, I walked away from my exam feeling slightly disappointed in my score, but not disappointed in myself, which is infinitely more important. I scored above average on both the verbal and the math (which is quite hilarious considering I'd guessed on about 70% of the math questions, after having been told how little importance the math score carries). Now I'm in for a nail-biting, two-month waiting game. GPAs and scores mean little on their own... they must, of course, be meticulously compared with those of other applicants and pored over along with your resume, personal essay and letters of recommendation. And then, once the almighty graduate panel chooses to admit you, there's the wee matter of signing over your firstborn child.
With any luck, my competition (in terms of fellow applicants) will be, at best, mediocre students with mediocre grades, exam scores and writing skills. No Mensa members, please. I suppose I can take comfort in knowing that English and Writing are not subjects that attract students specifically to Humboldt State University. HSU is more widely sought after for students pursuing Forestry, Agriculture and Environmental Science. Oh, and let's not forget Botany and Hydroponics (snicker, snicker).
Thankfully, with the purgatorial graduate record exam behind me, I can focus on other, infinitely more interesting and important things for the first time in months. Imagination racing, adrenaline pumping, I seek to fill my days with inspiration! Unfortunately, without that big hurdle to focus my energy on, I'm left with more time to dwell on how terribly I miss NYC and my friends and family there. But that's a melancholy musing for another day.
Well, thanks to Matt, my new website is up and running, with just a few minor kinks still left to iron out. Not that I should be tinkering with something as frivolous as this when I have a major exam tomorrow, one that will essentially decide whether or not I'm admitted to graduate school. I do believe I've studied enough (if that's even possible in the world of standardized testing) and I've resolved myself to the unfortunate reality that if I'm not prepared by now, it's doubtful a few more hours of studying will help. Naturally, that won't stop me from frantically flipping through my flashcards one or two more times before the day is out and then being besieged by those typical night-before-an-important-exam dreams that all but ensure I'll awaken groggy and disoriented, stumbling to the test site exhausted and far from equipped to handle the rigors of a three-hour exam.
But I will still kick major verbal and (with any luck) mathematical ass.
If you're reading this it means you did not give up on me and for that I thank you wholeheartedly! It's been a long road but I'm still here and anxious to begin blogging again. Changes are most certainly afoot and as soon as my new webpage is up and running, you'll be redirected and your cyberlook into my world can continue. Until then, in the immortal words of Bartles and Jaymes (or at least the actors who played them in the commercials), I thank you for your support.