I have a track record of getting on kicks. When I was a kid I was obsessed with rabbits and being Asian. Then I was all about running and being a runner. Then it was history, and then This American Life... and so on. Getting on certain kicks is for the most part, normal. Throughout peoples' lives, passions and enthusiasm for things or activities ebb and flow, with me however, I tend to take things just a little too far. And it's not that I make it my whole identity or anything, I just obsess, talk about and consume to an extreme degree whatever it is that I am really excited about at any particular point in time. Currently, I am all about Dan Savage.
Now, I had heard on a regular basis Dan Savage read essays he had written on This American Life. Essays about love, sex, being gay and life in general - and I loved what he said every time he was featured. It was not until I was talking about Dan with my friend, Justine, that I made the cross over from being a pronounced fan of Dan Savage when featured on This American Life to getting on an official, Alana-style, Dan Savage kick.
It started with just going to his column, Savage Love, and then it spread into listening to his podcast, and then I knew i was on an official Alana kick when I realized that I had been spending months of lunch breaks pouring over every single archived article. Years' worth of weekly columns pretty much dominated my free time. But it makes sense, Dan's column is the shit...let me tell you why.
To begin with, unlike the more mainstream sex-advice-public-write-in-ditties, readers of Savage Love get to hear from all voices across the sexual/relational spectrum. With this being the case, you hear from people who share your kinks but you also get to hear from people with kinks that can be, if nothing else, interesting and enlightening. And as much as this may sound like a The More You Know public announcement, Savage Love does of great job humanizing people that the large majority of people may write off as freaks by showing over and over again the truth that people's sexuality is complex and that there is no such thing as "normal." Also, Dan is mean, blunt, hilarious, kind of an asshole and for the most part, offers his readers sound advice and judgment on sex, sexuality and relationships.
**As a side note: hearing from people who share your kinks can be a great way to get tips on how to act on them in a safe and enjoyable way - there are some great ideas out there.***
Moral of the story, Google Dan Savage or Savage love, or just follow the links below.
http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/SavageLove?oid=1192438
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ObrFwjesno
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZvit_XXASg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=crSUj-mcn0A
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
what are we laughing at?
I like laughing, I do, and fortunately for me, a lot of things make me laugh. From Wes Anderson's "dark humor" to Dumb and Dumber slap-stick, to the "harsh" humor of Forgetting Sarah Marshall to the satire of South Park to squirrels on water skis. There are few forms of humor that don't get a laugh out of me. I'm also really good at laughing at myself. Life is just too intense and we humans are just a little too ridiculous for anyone to take themselves so seriously that they can't recognize their own ridiculousness and laugh.
Being able to laugh at myself is something I am proud to say I do really well. A peculiar quality to be proud of, but if you grew up in my family you would know that the ability to laugh at one's self is a skill that one must be dedicated to cultivating. Now, society applauds the ability to laugh at yourself; good, that's great. And like most things, my family took starting-point ques from the mainstream and then ran to an inappropriate extreme. This is the story of humor in the Kalinowski Family.
Growing up, Funny was king. Now, most families have their quirks and twists, but because we lived in the literal woods and were fairly isolated, homeschoolers, we had no other forces to sort of, balance us out. Family quirks held significantly more developmental weight in our homeschooling family then they would have ever held, had we also been surrounded by additional developmental forces. We weren't and they did, making my family's obsession with Funny a major carving tool in my person.
In my family, the ability to say with perfect delivery, the most hurtful thing in the funniest possible way, could only be trumped when the recipient was not only able to laugh at, salute and swallow that statement but then instantaneously produce a reciprocation even more witty and hurtful. I realize that kids in schoolyards practice the same "one upping" dance, but the difference with us was, this cutting game was played amongst homeschooling siblings that knew everything about each other - including deepest doubts and fears. Another key, damaging difference being that, schoolyard kids can walk away from a bout of "friendly teasing" and say to themselves, "I hate that fucking douche bag," while us siblings on the other hand, had to genuinely convince ourselves that the cutting statements made by our siblings were in fact, just funny and not at all hurtful. They were your siblings and classmates; no good burning bridges, they were all you had and there was no making new friends with some other, nicer kid in the class.
Beginning this life as a emotionally sensitive, easily manipulated ball of mush, I was of course, the bully's dream target of mockery. With three older siblings and two younger, I had no choice but to grow some thicker skin. Although I did improve over the course of my first 13 years, I was never very good at the hurtfully funny retort portion of the game; I couldn't think of something mean about the other person fast enough. And because sinking wasn't an option, the way I learned to swim was by becoming an expert at "taking the joke." Proving that I not only caught the sarcasm and appreciated the joke by laughing at, and then elaborating on my sibling's joke about me, I found that I was able to gain back a large stake of power lost by the initial joke. Owning someone else' joke as my own, developed into a fairly dominant component of my own sense of humor and personality - hence my tendency for self-deprecating humor.
It was not until I did the whole "self-discovery" bit in college and I began figuring my shit out that I got a little self-confidence, and realized that there is in fact a difference between funny, self-deprecating humor and being pathetic and laughing along with people who are talking shit about you. I didn't get that difference until college, and I'll admit, that even though I have come a long way, I do tend to err on the side of letting people talk shit when I shouldn't let them. Side note: if I do err on the side of not standing up for myself these days, it is less because I don't have the confidence in myself or am afraid, but more because the idea of being that person who couldn't laugh along when they should have, is still more pathetic to me than the person who gets walked on. Moving on (and we are going somewhere, I promise).
When I look back, it is clear that there was an obvious progression from a the ball of mush kid that I was, to the place where I am today; a place where I may not be completely healthy or balanced but where I at least have a sense of awareness on where I want to be going. This progression was of course something that I was completely oblivious to until sometime in 2005 when I heard a very convicting sermon by my pastor, Rob Bell, about jokes and humor.
Having been able to do it myself, I found that I judged (and still do, although I try not to) people I met who couldn't take a joke or who chose not to grow a tougher skin. At the time I had a roommate named Julie, who is just a wonderful person and I love her to death, but the woman could not take a joke to save her life - not even a stupid joke like a "your mom" joke. She would get hurt and offended very easily, and made it clear that not only did she not like being teased, but she never wanted to become someone who could handle being teased. This just blew my mind. I couldn't grasp the idea of someone being perfectly OK with being a wuss. I would tell her, "Jules, if you grew up in my family, you would have been eaten alive!" and she would always say, "well, i didn't." And I kept making jokes and teasing her because in my head, these were things that "she should be able to handle," and it was not until I heard Rob speak about humor that it occurred to me that maybe I should not force Julie into being able to handle a joke, but rather just stop teasing her.
Rob's sermon was based on the notion that God does not have to accommodate humans and show us love and grace in order for us to acknowledge that He is God. He's God, He could just demand that we do, but He does; He shows us love by meeting us where we are at. Because God is in the position to accommodate, He does, because that's what love does. This really struck home, because I realized that my actions towards Julie were not at all grounded in love. Yes, Julie should be able to take a simple joke, but the reality was, she couldn't and as someone who was in the position to accommodate, I should have.
Thinking about how love actually looks, it got me thinking and eventually realizing, just how hurtful my family was and still is to each other. Even as adults, we say the meanest shit to each other - the words that you know that will cut the deepest, and yet we expect the other person to laugh and tip their hats at the wittiness of the remark. And as much as I genuinely do laugh much of the time, and how much I love how casual we get to be with each other in that kind of environment, I do ask myself, how is this love? If there is to be anyone that builds us up and makes us feel safe and at ease, shouldn't that someone be a family member? Even though we are relaxed and don't have to guard what we say around each other, you do have to always be on your guard, ready for any biting word that if you allow it to, makes you feel like shit. When it comes to my family's relationship to humor as it relates to our interactions, I am conflicted.
The truth is, life was really harsh growing up, and humor was the means by which we were able to look at and talk about the difficult realities we were facing without breaking under it's pressure. Humor made it so we could do the hard work of processing the shittiness happening around us, from our house burning down to being poor, without letting the scariness overcome us. In short, humor was our release valve. Given the choice between having grown up in a family where harsh realities were not talked about but just swallowed, versus my family's use and often abuse of humor for the sake of openness, I would choose my family every time. But that's not to say that there were no unhealthy consequences, because it's clear that there were.
I can see that I have some scars, some war wounds if you will, from having grown up "with wolves," but like all scarring events in life I am still responsible for how I choice to respond to those wounds.
On the one hand, I like that I am able to laugh in the face of any shit life throws my way. I can, and I do. I know how to survive and enjoy life even when I am scared beyond belief. I would not have that skill if it had not been forged in the ruthless crucible that was my childhood. On the other hand however, I know that I am scarred and that I now have the natural tendecy to be harsh, ruthless and careless with others. Reckless with people's feelings may be my reasonable defualt, but I don't want that to be, I don't want to be the reason for someone else's wounds. I am responsible to love like Christ, even if there is good reason for me not being very good at that. The son that is beaten by his alcoholic dad has good reason to grow up and be an asshole to his kids because that's all he ever knew, but he shouldn't. Having reason to be an asshole is not an excuse, and that's why I like how Christ-like love works so much. Christ takes where we come from into account and meets us at our starting point, but He always demands that we don't sit in and wallow but grow and be held accoutable to keep growing. The beautiful paradox of grace and accountability working together simultaneously. JC is one good fellow indeed.
Being able to laugh at myself is something I am proud to say I do really well. A peculiar quality to be proud of, but if you grew up in my family you would know that the ability to laugh at one's self is a skill that one must be dedicated to cultivating. Now, society applauds the ability to laugh at yourself; good, that's great. And like most things, my family took starting-point ques from the mainstream and then ran to an inappropriate extreme. This is the story of humor in the Kalinowski Family.
Growing up, Funny was king. Now, most families have their quirks and twists, but because we lived in the literal woods and were fairly isolated, homeschoolers, we had no other forces to sort of, balance us out. Family quirks held significantly more developmental weight in our homeschooling family then they would have ever held, had we also been surrounded by additional developmental forces. We weren't and they did, making my family's obsession with Funny a major carving tool in my person.
In my family, the ability to say with perfect delivery, the most hurtful thing in the funniest possible way, could only be trumped when the recipient was not only able to laugh at, salute and swallow that statement but then instantaneously produce a reciprocation even more witty and hurtful. I realize that kids in schoolyards practice the same "one upping" dance, but the difference with us was, this cutting game was played amongst homeschooling siblings that knew everything about each other - including deepest doubts and fears. Another key, damaging difference being that, schoolyard kids can walk away from a bout of "friendly teasing" and say to themselves, "I hate that fucking douche bag," while us siblings on the other hand, had to genuinely convince ourselves that the cutting statements made by our siblings were in fact, just funny and not at all hurtful. They were your siblings and classmates; no good burning bridges, they were all you had and there was no making new friends with some other, nicer kid in the class.
Beginning this life as a emotionally sensitive, easily manipulated ball of mush, I was of course, the bully's dream target of mockery. With three older siblings and two younger, I had no choice but to grow some thicker skin. Although I did improve over the course of my first 13 years, I was never very good at the hurtfully funny retort portion of the game; I couldn't think of something mean about the other person fast enough. And because sinking wasn't an option, the way I learned to swim was by becoming an expert at "taking the joke." Proving that I not only caught the sarcasm and appreciated the joke by laughing at, and then elaborating on my sibling's joke about me, I found that I was able to gain back a large stake of power lost by the initial joke. Owning someone else' joke as my own, developed into a fairly dominant component of my own sense of humor and personality - hence my tendency for self-deprecating humor.
It was not until I did the whole "self-discovery" bit in college and I began figuring my shit out that I got a little self-confidence, and realized that there is in fact a difference between funny, self-deprecating humor and being pathetic and laughing along with people who are talking shit about you. I didn't get that difference until college, and I'll admit, that even though I have come a long way, I do tend to err on the side of letting people talk shit when I shouldn't let them. Side note: if I do err on the side of not standing up for myself these days, it is less because I don't have the confidence in myself or am afraid, but more because the idea of being that person who couldn't laugh along when they should have, is still more pathetic to me than the person who gets walked on. Moving on (and we are going somewhere, I promise).
When I look back, it is clear that there was an obvious progression from a the ball of mush kid that I was, to the place where I am today; a place where I may not be completely healthy or balanced but where I at least have a sense of awareness on where I want to be going. This progression was of course something that I was completely oblivious to until sometime in 2005 when I heard a very convicting sermon by my pastor, Rob Bell, about jokes and humor.
Having been able to do it myself, I found that I judged (and still do, although I try not to) people I met who couldn't take a joke or who chose not to grow a tougher skin. At the time I had a roommate named Julie, who is just a wonderful person and I love her to death, but the woman could not take a joke to save her life - not even a stupid joke like a "your mom" joke. She would get hurt and offended very easily, and made it clear that not only did she not like being teased, but she never wanted to become someone who could handle being teased. This just blew my mind. I couldn't grasp the idea of someone being perfectly OK with being a wuss. I would tell her, "Jules, if you grew up in my family, you would have been eaten alive!" and she would always say, "well, i didn't." And I kept making jokes and teasing her because in my head, these were things that "she should be able to handle," and it was not until I heard Rob speak about humor that it occurred to me that maybe I should not force Julie into being able to handle a joke, but rather just stop teasing her.
Rob's sermon was based on the notion that God does not have to accommodate humans and show us love and grace in order for us to acknowledge that He is God. He's God, He could just demand that we do, but He does; He shows us love by meeting us where we are at. Because God is in the position to accommodate, He does, because that's what love does. This really struck home, because I realized that my actions towards Julie were not at all grounded in love. Yes, Julie should be able to take a simple joke, but the reality was, she couldn't and as someone who was in the position to accommodate, I should have.
Thinking about how love actually looks, it got me thinking and eventually realizing, just how hurtful my family was and still is to each other. Even as adults, we say the meanest shit to each other - the words that you know that will cut the deepest, and yet we expect the other person to laugh and tip their hats at the wittiness of the remark. And as much as I genuinely do laugh much of the time, and how much I love how casual we get to be with each other in that kind of environment, I do ask myself, how is this love? If there is to be anyone that builds us up and makes us feel safe and at ease, shouldn't that someone be a family member? Even though we are relaxed and don't have to guard what we say around each other, you do have to always be on your guard, ready for any biting word that if you allow it to, makes you feel like shit. When it comes to my family's relationship to humor as it relates to our interactions, I am conflicted.
The truth is, life was really harsh growing up, and humor was the means by which we were able to look at and talk about the difficult realities we were facing without breaking under it's pressure. Humor made it so we could do the hard work of processing the shittiness happening around us, from our house burning down to being poor, without letting the scariness overcome us. In short, humor was our release valve. Given the choice between having grown up in a family where harsh realities were not talked about but just swallowed, versus my family's use and often abuse of humor for the sake of openness, I would choose my family every time. But that's not to say that there were no unhealthy consequences, because it's clear that there were.
I can see that I have some scars, some war wounds if you will, from having grown up "with wolves," but like all scarring events in life I am still responsible for how I choice to respond to those wounds.
On the one hand, I like that I am able to laugh in the face of any shit life throws my way. I can, and I do. I know how to survive and enjoy life even when I am scared beyond belief. I would not have that skill if it had not been forged in the ruthless crucible that was my childhood. On the other hand however, I know that I am scarred and that I now have the natural tendecy to be harsh, ruthless and careless with others. Reckless with people's feelings may be my reasonable defualt, but I don't want that to be, I don't want to be the reason for someone else's wounds. I am responsible to love like Christ, even if there is good reason for me not being very good at that. The son that is beaten by his alcoholic dad has good reason to grow up and be an asshole to his kids because that's all he ever knew, but he shouldn't. Having reason to be an asshole is not an excuse, and that's why I like how Christ-like love works so much. Christ takes where we come from into account and meets us at our starting point, but He always demands that we don't sit in and wallow but grow and be held accoutable to keep growing. The beautiful paradox of grace and accountability working together simultaneously. JC is one good fellow indeed.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Cliche, but these are my favorite sites
http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/
http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/SavageLove?oid=1148168
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
http://www.marshill.org/teaching/index.php
http://www.theworld.org/
http://www.npr.org/
http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/SavageLove?oid=1148168
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
http://www.marshill.org/teaching/index.php
http://www.theworld.org/
http://www.npr.org/
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
The Future Present
Although I have never gone to war, the month before I moved to San Diego felt as though it was the last month I was going to live. I'm clearly over dramatic here, but the reality is, the level of significance a person places onto an event, person or thing is relative to the life experiences of that person. Moving to a new city for someone who has say, survived Auschwitz, is just not big of a deal. I however, did not survive Auschwitz, so my move to San Diego, was a big fucking deal. That being said, I knew that the move to San Diego was going to be horrible. I was going to be lonely, stressed, anxious and depressed. And even though that's is the inevitable anytime you do something scary by yourself, that knowledge does not change the reality that you feel like shit. That knowledge therefore, also brought into relief all the more clearly just how precious that month of July in 2006 was to me then and would be forever more. July was the end. The end and the climax of a world I could not fathom letting go of.
I had moved to Grand Rapids, MI temporarily crippled, January 2, 2002 to attend Calvin College. Over the course of the next five years, that odd, bubble-like town that is full of Dutch, Calvinists became the incubator of my adult self - and not only my adult self, but the version of myself that I really like.
Now, many people recognize the weight and significance of something, someone or an event upon reflection after the fact. Given my relationship with memory and the act of remembrance, I don't work like this. While in the moment, even while some significant event that appears to be insignificant is still happening, I can not help but be fully aware of how significant it is and how I need to be taking it in very consciously so that I remember everything in the future. Sounds like it could be a cool ability, but the truth is, my inability to just experience something as it is happening; to just enjoy a cool moment for what it is, makes it so that I am constantly living in the future, obsessed with and preoccupied with the past, which is in reality, the present.
The month of July is a perfect example of that annoying trait. That July was significant, it was special, it was the end of a golden time that would never be lived again and it was a month of willing myself to let go. But because I was so aware of all this significance at the time, I ended up mourning the end before the end even came. On a daily scale this happens to me a lot. Because I am so aware of how temporal experiences are and how quickly beautiful realities are lost I cherish too tightly, the good things as they happen, to the point where I am missing those realities before they are gone. Does that makes sense? In short, I experience my present in terms of a memory.
Looking back, I think this odd quality in me is an overcompensation that developed subconsciously when, beginning as a very young person, I listened very carefully to old people telling me to appreciate my youth and to never take it for granted. To appreciate the good in your life, because once it is gone, that specific good is gone forever. That each good experience us unique and precious. I think their words hit a little too deep, because it sent me on this course of living, that to be quite honest, I am not too thrilled about. But then, there is of course a flip side. And I really do like that flip side, almost as much as the other side annoys me.
The flip side is that I do feel that I am fully aware of just how many areas of my life are to be cherished and counted as precious. And just as the oldies commanded me to do, I do appreciate the fact that I am in what's considered the "prime of my life." And it does feel good to be so aware of the constant flow of good things happening because it makes me look forward to the good things to come as well. And being grateful of the moment as it is happening also puts me in a place to share my appreciation for those around me instead of after the fact. So there's that. There is that really good flip side, but there is still a "but" and I am not quite sure what to do with that.
I think that I am troubled by this quirk in recent days because lately, experiencing my present as a memory is making me sad. The idea of my present good realities being no more in the distant future is just a little too much for me to handle. Similar to the grieving I felt that July, but different because this time, the projection of loss is not a phase of life but rather the fear of losing a someone.
While falling asleep against the person I am in love with, I am so overwhelmed by how good I feel that I find myself tipping onto the side of sadness because I know that at some point, this intense good will be no more. The weight to take it all in, to truly appreciate the now, to mark moments down in my memory for when they are gone, is a weight that sometimes feels crushing. Although, I'm not sure if I want to let go of that weight either.
I had moved to Grand Rapids, MI temporarily crippled, January 2, 2002 to attend Calvin College. Over the course of the next five years, that odd, bubble-like town that is full of Dutch, Calvinists became the incubator of my adult self - and not only my adult self, but the version of myself that I really like.
Now, many people recognize the weight and significance of something, someone or an event upon reflection after the fact. Given my relationship with memory and the act of remembrance, I don't work like this. While in the moment, even while some significant event that appears to be insignificant is still happening, I can not help but be fully aware of how significant it is and how I need to be taking it in very consciously so that I remember everything in the future. Sounds like it could be a cool ability, but the truth is, my inability to just experience something as it is happening; to just enjoy a cool moment for what it is, makes it so that I am constantly living in the future, obsessed with and preoccupied with the past, which is in reality, the present.
The month of July is a perfect example of that annoying trait. That July was significant, it was special, it was the end of a golden time that would never be lived again and it was a month of willing myself to let go. But because I was so aware of all this significance at the time, I ended up mourning the end before the end even came. On a daily scale this happens to me a lot. Because I am so aware of how temporal experiences are and how quickly beautiful realities are lost I cherish too tightly, the good things as they happen, to the point where I am missing those realities before they are gone. Does that makes sense? In short, I experience my present in terms of a memory.
Looking back, I think this odd quality in me is an overcompensation that developed subconsciously when, beginning as a very young person, I listened very carefully to old people telling me to appreciate my youth and to never take it for granted. To appreciate the good in your life, because once it is gone, that specific good is gone forever. That each good experience us unique and precious. I think their words hit a little too deep, because it sent me on this course of living, that to be quite honest, I am not too thrilled about. But then, there is of course a flip side. And I really do like that flip side, almost as much as the other side annoys me.
The flip side is that I do feel that I am fully aware of just how many areas of my life are to be cherished and counted as precious. And just as the oldies commanded me to do, I do appreciate the fact that I am in what's considered the "prime of my life." And it does feel good to be so aware of the constant flow of good things happening because it makes me look forward to the good things to come as well. And being grateful of the moment as it is happening also puts me in a place to share my appreciation for those around me instead of after the fact. So there's that. There is that really good flip side, but there is still a "but" and I am not quite sure what to do with that.
I think that I am troubled by this quirk in recent days because lately, experiencing my present as a memory is making me sad. The idea of my present good realities being no more in the distant future is just a little too much for me to handle. Similar to the grieving I felt that July, but different because this time, the projection of loss is not a phase of life but rather the fear of losing a someone.
While falling asleep against the person I am in love with, I am so overwhelmed by how good I feel that I find myself tipping onto the side of sadness because I know that at some point, this intense good will be no more. The weight to take it all in, to truly appreciate the now, to mark moments down in my memory for when they are gone, is a weight that sometimes feels crushing. Although, I'm not sure if I want to let go of that weight either.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Jimmy Carter's Mexican Cafe
http://www.jimmycartersmexicancafe.com/
Delicious. Colorful. Awesome.
Don't let the name fool you, this place may be named after a white dude, but good 'ol Mexican cuisine pumps from the kitchen of Jimmy Carter's Mexican Cafe. A block from my house, Jimmy Carter's is our answers to many breakfast, lunch and dinner questions. My personal favorite, the fish tacos. They're fucking delicious. Enjoy.
Delicious. Colorful. Awesome.
Don't let the name fool you, this place may be named after a white dude, but good 'ol Mexican cuisine pumps from the kitchen of Jimmy Carter's Mexican Cafe. A block from my house, Jimmy Carter's is our answers to many breakfast, lunch and dinner questions. My personal favorite, the fish tacos. They're fucking delicious. Enjoy.
Waltz With Bashir
I get stuck on the phenomenon of memory. It's more than a fascination, the conscious act of remembering has informed my entire person and how I view the world. How we remember, the dreamlike colors of the images that get stuck in our mind and most importantly of all, what we chose to remember are questions that I pearl over in my mind to the extent that living in the present is difficult.
And it's not just one's ability to remember or their personal account of "how it all happened" - what we remember shapes not only how we see ourselves and our identity in the present but how we move and conduct ourselves into the future (On a personal level as well as the macro level when talking about national or collective remembrance).
You may have already guessed, but this last point is a big deal to me. It's the crux of what I obsess about when something comes up that brings how and what we remember into question.
I think a part of the reason memory is so interesting to me is that the memories we have are something we paradoxically have no control over, and yet at the same time, the nature of our reflection (a force we control) on the present directly shapes how that moment or event looks to us in the future. It's crazy. I love it.
Watching Waltz with Bashir last night got me all fired up about this topic of remembering - especially because I have been really wrestling in a somewhat passive way, with the topic for the past month or so for some very personal reasons. Ideas. Ideas that get a little too jumbled for me if they are not forced out in some sort of semi-organized fashion. So that's what I am going to work on over the next little chunck of time - see if by organizing my thoughts, I can stop pearling over the act of remembering in some sort of detached way, but just live and remeber those moments of life. That's what I want, right?
And it's not just one's ability to remember or their personal account of "how it all happened" - what we remember shapes not only how we see ourselves and our identity in the present but how we move and conduct ourselves into the future (On a personal level as well as the macro level when talking about national or collective remembrance).
You may have already guessed, but this last point is a big deal to me. It's the crux of what I obsess about when something comes up that brings how and what we remember into question.
I think a part of the reason memory is so interesting to me is that the memories we have are something we paradoxically have no control over, and yet at the same time, the nature of our reflection (a force we control) on the present directly shapes how that moment or event looks to us in the future. It's crazy. I love it.
Watching Waltz with Bashir last night got me all fired up about this topic of remembering - especially because I have been really wrestling in a somewhat passive way, with the topic for the past month or so for some very personal reasons. Ideas. Ideas that get a little too jumbled for me if they are not forced out in some sort of semi-organized fashion. So that's what I am going to work on over the next little chunck of time - see if by organizing my thoughts, I can stop pearling over the act of remembering in some sort of detached way, but just live and remeber those moments of life. That's what I want, right?
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