New Job... Enter Hell

May 23, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

After babysitting for a week and doing nothing intellectually stimulating for hours on end, the publishing think tank that I freelance for called me up and said they had an assignment for me. Eureka! It would mean freedom from dirty diapers, whining, teething babies, and manipulative eight year olds who tell you “but my mommy I could” when their mothers definitely said quite the contrary before they left. I should have seen more than freedom from children. I should have envisioned Satan and his three mouths in Dante’s lowest circle of the Inferno. Brutus, Cassius, and Judas were lucky...

For the past three days I have been working on a website migration. This is not just a dinky 10 page website migration. This is a giant website, a huge database with thousands of pages about health and health related topics. When I got here the boss man said, “oh, it’ll just be copy and paste...” Yeah right. This has become as complicated as the web design that my boyfriend does. We have to worry about every single thing – even design elements. It’s ironic, consdering most of us doing it are proofreaders and copyeditors. Web design wasn’t a prerequisite before...

The worst part of the job is staring at this confounded computer screen all day. I’ve had a headache for two days straight and my eyes just hurt. All of the time. The second worst part of the job was the coffee... they switched to Starbucks today though! The job is tedious, boring, rote, and involves limited interaction with other employees. Did I mention that we are located in the middle of nowhere? The nearest coffee shop or place with food is a good two miles away.

I suppose I should mention positive things about this job. First, the “higher up,” whoever they may be, don’t try to micromanage. In fact, they are very hands off. One may take as many breaks as they feel like and can come and go from the office when they please. There is no “set time” to be into work by and no “set time” that one has to leave. I was floored on the first day when I didn’t see 15 employees running to the door because it was 5:00. Perhaps it is because they have a vested interest in their work... or because they mozied on into the office at 11:00 and want to stay to get their full eight hours in. Either way, I can’t say that I blame them, although I want to be gone by 5:00 and moving on with my life, even if I just go home to take a nap and stuff my face!

In retrospect, I like college. A lot. I’m done with my day by 2:00 and can relax before starting my homework. I can sit around in pajamas all day and be a bum or go out shopping at 2:00 when all the “normal” people are at work. Oh... how I miss the good ole’ days.       

 

Smashing Pumpkins – Zeitgeist

May 14, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

I must admit that although the Smashing Pumpkins’ Zeitgeist has been out since July 2007, a couple of days ago was the first time I actually listened to the entire album. To be frank, I didn’t really care for it. It was spacier than their other albums and for their first album since reuniting in 2005, kind of a disappointment. Only two of the six members reunited and recorded the album – Billy Corgan and Jimmy Chamberlin. After a strong debut at #2 on the Billboard 200, it quickly slipped down the charts, although it was certified gold in February of this year.

Billy Corgan claimed in an interview entitled “Inside the Zeitgeist” that the album is “not a serious departure from other albums.” I don’t think I agree… sorry Jay!

According to Jimmy Chamberlin, the band’s goals for the album were: “The mindset of the record was to put our best foot forward and not get too artsy. We wanted to try to create a body of work that was concentrated enough to bring back a fan base and invigorate a new fan base. We kept it pretty close to the chest, and we didn't branch out too deep into art zone while we were writing the record^” ("The Evolution of Jimmy Chamberlin: Still Smashing!" Modern Drummer, November 2007).

All tracks of the record were written by Billy Corgan. Honestly, he should have just released it as his second solo album, rather than taint the band’s name. Don’t get me wrong, I like “Tarantula” and a couple other songs, I just think that it would have been better to release it as a Billy Corgan solo album featuring Jimmy Chamberlin, a person who just happened to have been the drummer for the Smashing Pumpkins. But don't take it from me... it's only my two cents.

 

 

Lucille Clifton – Won’t You Celebrate With Me?

May 14, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

Last evening, I had the privilege of attending a reading by Lucille Clifton, with an introduction by Sonia Sanchez. These two feisty ladies, who resist being called “elders,” were enjoyable to listen to. The reading was supposed to have taken place at the Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, DC, but when I got there they had moved the reading across the street to a church. I didn’t like that for two reasons. One, the acoustics were poor and it was often hard to hear Lucille Clifton, especially at the ends of her sentences. Two, the church choir spent the duration of the reading practicing in the basement. They were distracting, loud, and terrible, especially the sopranos. Their high notes pierced the air and made it really hard to concentrate on poor Lucille Clifton because of the doubling of my stomach and reflex to cover my ears.   

Lucille Clifton, from New York, attended Howard University in Washington, DC. Although she didn’t graduate, she was popular there because she was from New York. If only the kids had known she was from Buffalo, nowhere near New York City! She related telling her mother that the kids at the school had matching robes AND slippers and that her mother was really excited and hoped she would reach that height.

Lucille Clifton was poet laureate of Maryland for a number of years because, she believes, “they forgot about me.” Once, she was asked to read at a Maryland celebration. The theme was “Colonial Maryland, 350^th Anniversary.” For the occasion, she wrote the poem, “Why Some People Be Mad at Me Sometimes.” She spoke a lot between the poems and I’d guess that the ratio of talking to poetry was about 80-20. I actually prefer when a poet does more talking than reading because one can read their poems in a book, whereas this rich oral history cannot be reproduced.

Lucille Clifton spoke often of her family – her mother, father, and children. Her mother died at the age of 44, a month before Lucille’s first child was born. They were, from what I could gather, close, and the first words Lucille remembers hearing were Dunbar’s, lying in her mother’s lap, her mother reading poetry to her. She described herself as a “clever” kid that used to write Valentines for her classmates. Her father was a “very strong Baptist. I think he wasn’t made a Deacon because of my sister.” Lucille Clifton had a sister that was 6 ½ months younger than her, from her father and a different woman, although her parents were still married. Lucille’s mother raised the two girls together and because of this, her father was convinced that he wasn’t promoted to the position of Deacon.

Lucille Clifton had six children over the period of 6 ½ years. She also had many abortions and identified with Gwendolyn Brooks’ “the mother,” one of my favorite poems. She read “the mother” at the reading and commented afterward that she had had more than one abortion before somebody finally told her it was all right to have an abortion.

Two of Lucille Clifton’s most creative poems were “Aunt Jemima” and “Cream of Wheat.” Like their titles say, the poems were about the characters, Aunt Jemima of the syrup bottle and the Cream of Wheat guy. In “Aunt Jemima” Lucille Clifton writes,

“white folks say I remind them of home
I who have been homeless all my life.”

In “Cream of Wheat” she has three characters go on excursions together, “Ben, Jemima, and me.”

Lucille Clifton’s lovely daughter-in-law said this about her, which Clifton, bemused, related:

“she can’t see, can’t hear, can’t walk, assumes she knows everything.” I can’t wait until my daughter-in-law says something similar about me…

Throughout the reading, Lucille Clifton was preoccupied with the question of naming. She asked, many times, who has the right to name something? It was also a topic in the discussion portion of the evening.

Lucille Clifton had cancer four times, something which I did not know. She also had a kidney removed, and I think she said, although I didn’t exactly catch it because of the choir, that she was molested by her father as a child, although please don’t quote me, as I have found nothing to verify this. She’s been widowed for the past 27 years and would have had her fiftieth anniversary on May 10^th.

This is my favorite Lucille Clifton poem, which she read:

"won't you celebrate with me
what I have shaped into
a kind of life? I had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did I see to be except myself?
I made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand     come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed."

After the reading ended, Sonia Sanchez interviewed Lucille Clifton and moderated the conversation afterward. The second guy who asked a question asked, “What would you use as a metaphor if Barack Obama won, and what would you use as a metaphor if Barack Obama lost?” Lucille Clifton, obviously taken aback, didn’t answer the question directly. Instead, she said, “I’d rather see Michelle than Bill.” Sonia Sanchez said the best thing of the night. She said, “Young people can see a black man and a black woman in a white house,” when commenting upon the changes that the country has undergone. Lucille Clifton commented, also, upon people who say women are “betraying their gender” if they vote for Barack Obama. She said something akin to (but again I couldn’t exactly tell due to the lovely choir), they didn’t tell our grandmothers to get off the floors when they were scrubbing them. Obviously, I’ve butchered this reply, but that was the gist of it.

I encourage you to check out Lucille Clifton’s poetry and the poetry of Sonia Sanchez. They want real change. You won’t be disappointed.

 

A Juxtaposition

May 13, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

she holds her glass strawberry daiquiri with a twist of lemon on top shaved ice shaved legs waxed pubic hair plucked eyebrows spray-on tan monthly Botox injections liposuction of the tummy and thighs breast implants and radiant shine she demands another drink the pool boy scurries to fetch it she spits it out it’s not good enough for her tastes or her body or her daddy’s money or her beach house in Cancun that she visits once or twice a year the Mexican children beg for coins in the street  

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

when I got him he had a sandbag on his head and his hands were zip tied on top of the sandbag if he was there because he was sitting on a homemade bomb we’d fuck him up hitting his chest head legs stomach back throw him to the ground kick dirt on him put him in stress positions or put him in a tent all day and deprive him of water I gave him five-gallon water cans and made him hold them out until he got muscle fatigue until he was shaking so badly that he couldn’t stand then I pushed him to the ground and made him do pushups sat on him while he did pushups until he passed out guard shifts were 12 hours and we wouldn’t give them water for entire shifts and the next guys wouldn’t either we gave them crackers to eat and didn’t let them sleep the soldiers at Abu Ghraib were getting in trouble for the same things we were told to do so we destroyed the pictures

 

Clinton, McCain, and Obama's Orphan Works Act - A Nation of Thieves

May 12, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

<<>>A Nation of Thieves: H.R.5889 Orphan Works Act of 2008

I doubt that it was the move to Washington, DC that made my designer boyfriend so political. Where every other person on the street is some sort of an activist, lobbyist, or government worker, I doubt that it was merely the move here that did it. No. I think what finally moved him from being 'opinionated' to actually active was the fact that Berman, Coble, Conyers, and Smith (all congressmen) were planning to steal his rights to about 15 years of creative work.

Now, I admit that I thought Sean was being a bit hysterical about the effects of the 'Orphan Works Act' when I first heard about them. Maybe exaggerating? I mean, what could one bill passing through Congress have anything to do with me?

I ignored the rants for a while.

It wasn't until I heard Sean 'strategizing' with others on ways to 'hurt' clients and artists that I started to pay attention... and couldn't believe that even Congress could be this stupid and anti-economy, anti-artist, anti-writer, anti-creative for the sake of money and corporation.

Here's the gist of it:

If you thought that your creative work was protected by copyright, know that those rights end as of this summer. Designs, photographs, paintings, poems, short stories, plays, blogs, cool scripts, web sites... if you don't rush to
register the copyrights, they could very well be owned by somebody that does. At the very least, they could be bundled together with other works and sold without your permission, used, manipulated, changed... you will
not be able to do anything about it other than try to sue to get (after paying all the court costs) a 'fair and reasonable price' for the theft, etc. etc. Do your research. Go here and read this article. It has had 17,000 hits in the past four days, over half of them in the last day:>

 

<<>>http://rasadesign.com/orphan-works-bill.html
>

 

<<>>These men are spearheading the bill and fast-forwarding it through Congress.
>

<<>>Rep. Howard Berman [D, CA-28]
and 3 Co-Sponsors
Rep. Howard Coble [R, NC-6]
Rep. John Conyers [D, MI-14]
Rep. Lamar Smith [R, TX-21] >

 

Don't become a victim. At this point, while it seems that it is physically impossible to stop the bill, the next step is to make it hurt - the media companies, clients that have to pay for creative works - in other words, make it owned.

FOR EXAMPLE: 

Dear New York Times,

    I am writing to inform you that my company has registered your article, "X," and only copyright to INSERT TITLE HERE. Your use of that article is in violation of our copyright and we request that you pay a fair amount for the use of that article.

Sincerely,

John P. CEO

 

Don't be bulldozed. Get on the bandwagon and make this bill hurt.


 

 

Lou: War Story #1

May 12, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

Lou: War Story #1

“I had a life once but I stopped feeding it so one day it walked away” – Anonymous

it’s 11:26 on november 3rd and I’m watching a greasy guy grab at his girl’s ass on a dirty street in Brooklyn the rain falling down around them drops running off their faces until they’re soaked: they’re walking towards Lou and his normal abode – the alley behind the Laundromat with the stray cats and the stench of stagnant water with the mosquitoes infesting their skin the mange eating them alive – the guy says to his girl, “Juan over on 33rd has some coke I told him we’d pick it up sound good sweetie?” “da,” the reply I can see him smile I imagine him scaring little children with his stringy black hair skinny skeletal frame under a tight-fitting navy blue zip up hoodie and flannel vest looking like some 90s knockoff from 90210 the girl picks at her nose accidentally scratches a scab on the inside and it begins to bleed the first few red drops sputter choke rejoice to see daylight and release the release is orgasmic better than any sex he’s ever had with her the rain mixes with the blood and it drips down her white shirt they hold hands as they meander down the street en route to 33rd they’ll soon be walking back a rock in hand ready to shoot up behind the Laundromat where Lou usually lives with his milk crates: it’s 2:01 and I see them walking in the other direction hurrying this time not able to wait for the high the boost a second guy comes on the scene walks out of the Laundromat crosses the street to meet the guy and the girl greets them with a terse “what’s up?” and they get down to business a bag passes hands and the second guy stands in the door of the Laundromat while the girl and the first guy dash behind the ‘mat to the alley to shoot up the girl kicks over Lou’s crate spilling the contents – a cup from 7-11 with some rusty coins stuck to the bottom a gray ratty blanket a McDonald’s wrapper with a half-eaten crusty burger and some cigarette butts – she rolls up her sleeve pumps her fist the vein enlarged he takes off his bandana and ties it around her upper arm he has made the preparations said the rites she’s ready for her bread he gives it to her she inhales exhales as it rushes through her body yes don’t stop ever moving towards the Laundromat I see Lou staggering swaying tipsy-topsy coming right at them he’s carrying a broken umbrella and holding it like a rifle up to his eye to see through the sight he’s got his prey in the scope “bang bang” he mumbles to himself drops the umbrella throws himself to the ground and covers his ears the girl looks up for a fraction of a second then reenters the euphoria grinding her teeth her pulse throbbing she starts talking to the guy telling him about everything that happened to her yesterday wanting the most from her 10 minutes in heaven Lou jumps up grabs the umbrella and breaks into a run the guy gives him a quizzical look and goes back to monitoring his girl in a couple of minutes it’ll be his turn he grins laughs at her babbling monologue Lou runs directly at the girl spilling their bag with the needles she screams, “get off me!” but he can’t hear it – he’s on the wrong side of the glass        

 

Hospital Happenings – How the Cool Kids Spend Exam Period

May 04, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

I sympathize with Noise of Damselflies. It is exam period and there isn’t much time for anything. Eating consists of nighttime binges on potato chips and popcorn in front of the computer, getting grease on the keyboard and crumbs in between the keys. Exercise consists of trips to the bathroom. Sleep is rare and comes in bursts – often beginning at 3:30 in the morning.

At this point, I have three more papers to write… This would be daunting for the average student, but with pink eye and flu-like symptoms, it is the pits. I spent most of the day today in the emergency room and was re-diagnosed with pink eye. Thank you very much. My left eye is mostly shut; it’s swollen and I look like I’ve been high for five days straight. I have a fever and all of my muscles ache. So it is like this that I traverse to slay the paper!

The emergency room was fun. It was my first time, ever, in one. You wait in the waiting room and then you’re called into the triage so you can be cursorily examined and the nurse determines which order you’ll be seen in. Then you go to a desk and sign your life away on their neat pieces of paper, give out all of your personal information, and then wait. After that goes through, if you’re lucky, you are escorted into the actual emergency room. Since I had trouble with my eye, I was put into the eye exam room. There, you wait some more for the scribe to come visit you. And no, I’m not kidding. Josh, the nice man in scrubs who came into see me, was, in fact, a scribe. His scrubs said it. He wrote down my symptoms and relayed the information to the doctor.

Naturally, I was curious as to who else was in the waiting room and why. The guy next to me was really skinny and small and was sitting on an exam table with an insanely big amount of gauze on and under his nose, all of it covered with blood. Down the hall were two police officers and a woman wearing handcuffs. Fun. Everyone else looked relatively “normal.”

The doctor came in, saw me, re-diagnosed me with pink eye and then sent me home. I was diagnosed with pink eye (conjunctivitis for you medical buffs) on Friday at the Student Health Center by a nurse practitioner. She was unclear about what dosage of antibiotic I was supposed to get… so she wrote down 3%, then added a decimal place in front of the 3 and sent me on my merry way. Needless to say, after obsessive use of the antibiotic and the amount of time that passed and the fact that my eye was getting worse daily, I went to the ER, only to be re-diagnosed with pink-eye.

Well, my Dante paper is getting lonely… perhaps I should return to it…. but not before my boyfriend reminds me to put drops in my eyes again. After Dante is my paper for my 2oth Century American poets and tomorrow comes the joy of contrasting German novels with one another (in German). Wish me luck... I'm going to need it.

 

I Love Low-Budget Sci-Fi Films!

April 26, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

I love low-budget sci-fi films. Mainly because they’re awful! My boyfriend loves Sci-Fi and the Sci-Fi channel. Last night we were watching “10.5 Apocalypse” which, for a sci-fi film (originally a miniseries but showed as a film here), started out all right but rapidly, like the earthquakes, declined.

“Another massive 10.5 quake tears apart the West Coast, threatening to turn the American landscape into a hellish wasteland. Seismologist Samantha Hill sees an even greater threat: an ever-widening fault line that's heading straight for the country's two largest nuclear reactors. If a meltdown occurs, millions will die. Samantha and the American president agree only one man can help them-the scientist who predicted this terrifying natural disaster years before-Samantha's own father, Dr. Earl Hill, now counted as a possible casualty of a massive Las Vegas quake. Together with a crack rescue team including Brad and Will, Samantha must find her father and stop the fault from slicing uncontrollably toward millions of people and the ultimate nuclear apocalypse” [thanks IMDB!]

The plot was halfway enthralling… but the characters and character development was lackluster and cliché. Beau Bridges was probably the worst actor in the entire movie, although, truth be told, I’m not sure if he’s ever been a good actor. He played the most awful president I’ve ever seen portrayed in “10.5 Apocalypse.” He’s boring and dull and all parts of the movie associated with him were likewise.

The rest of the actors I had never heard of, but none of them were anything to write home about. Their acting classes were… well, nonexistent. Granted, their scripts were terrible, but I expected as much, as the series was produced by Hallmark Entertainment Company. They are the genius masterminds behind such films as “Tell Me No Secrets” and “What Kind of Mother Are You?” Think Lifetime, “television for women.”

“10.5 Apocalypse” was nominated for the 2007 Saturn Award for Best Presentation on Television. It lost. Probably because it was 240 minutes long. That’s 4 hours. Four hours of your life that you could spend doing anything! Anything but “10.5 Apocalypse!”

The coolest actor in the film was Frank Langella, who is simply badass for an old guy. He played the crazy Dr. Earl Hill who was kicked out of the scientific community for his crackpot theories. He turned gambler because he was so badass that he could freeze someone with his stare. When his daughter is hard-pressed to explain the recent events occurring (the chain of earthquakes), she remembers his theory and he, hesitant to help, finally does, saving the day.

I suppose, if you have four hours and nothing better to do, you could waste your time watching this movie. But short of being laid-up in a hospital bed, it wouldn’t be my recommendation.

 

Ammiel Alcalay

April 25, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

“How indeed shall we account for this pause?” – from Scrapmetal

 
I’ve spent the past semester studying the poetry and work of the poet, scholar, critic, and translator Ammiel Alcalay. Currently he is the Visiting Lannan Professor of Poetics at Georgetown University. He is teaching a class entitled “Politics of Applied Poetics” and is also heavily involved in an administrative capacity and events at Georgetown, including the recent Lannan Symposium: ‘Let Freedom Ring:’ Art and Democracy in the King Years, 1954-1968. His work has been inspired by the poets Charles Olson and Robert Duncan. His father, Albert Alcalay, who just passed away, last month, also played a large role in Ammiel’s life.

As a person, he is fascinating. He is always eager to meet with students for coffee or to assist them with their poetic endeavors. He recently contributed a few poems to The Georgetown College Journal, something which he definitely did not have to do, but did anyway.

Ammiel was born and raised in Boston, the son of Sephardic Jews from São Tomé and Príncipe. His father, Albert Alcalay, was an international artist, and at the age of 12, an apprentice to Bora Baruh. He fought with the resistance in WWII and was captured by the Nazis but managed to escape to Italy. He lived in freedom for a while but entered prison to hide from the Gestapo. In 1942, he rejoined his family in a macabre reunion at Ferramonti concentration camp in southern Italy. There he met German Expressionist painter, Michael Fingesten, which made him determined to become an artist. (An extended biography of Albert can be found here: http://kantarfinearts.com/gallery/aa-1.asp).

Albert’s influence on Ammiel was great – his friends included Charles Olson with which the family would spend summers on Rocky Neck during the 1950s, Robert Creeley, Allen Ginsberg, Vincent Ferrini, and Peter Anastas.      

An interesting, random fact is that “Ammiel” means “people of God.”

Instead of waxing poetic about all of his works, deeds, and prizes, I want to instead focus on Ammiel, the man, as I have come to know him. I urge you to Google him, though, as his work is fascinating and worth reading. I will include some at the end, for your temptation…

Ammiel wears his hair in a disheveled ponytail and normally sports jeans and some sort of flannel shirt. He has a pair of thick glasses inseparable from his face and wild, wild hair. I went over to his university apartment one day to take some pictures of some artwork he had done, collages he had made right after his father’s death, and he was playing Grateful Dead on his stereo, chilling out. He had a bowl of oranges and lemons on his table and drawing paraphernalia sprawled out.  

Here is an excerpt from The Cairo Notebooks:

“braided bracelets hair eyes mouths ships at sea breasts your

  wrist embroidered pillow cases legs your head naked spine rain

  water the beach quilts clothes the ghosts of our bodies a watch

  skin and straw to dive and breathe whispers my arms this time

  weaving long al my life my face resting the room laceless

  drying my hands lying half-naked in winter this time voices

  clinging to our bedclothes the air over his body my child gold

  my dress go ahead this time which I love lying my back

  I don’t mind almost never time badly torn stand clinging

  the light the air almost fire taking off all my clothes

  my stomach your face swim the window kissing delicate skin”

 

Here is an excerpt from From the Warring Factions:

 

“each and all” “the words and deeds”

 

            “to work hard” “to sustain and abstain”

 

 

 

                                          to wish “with all my faculties

 

                                          that the social wealth

 

                                          would belong”

 

 

“as it was the fruit of the work of all”

 

 

            “I know that, I see that, I tell that to everybody”

 

            Orpheus too was afraid –

 

            “it was a night without a moon”

 

                                                                                    “I remember”:

 

Another from From the Warring Factions:

 

“lo these many years of construction repairing

  the irreparable potholes the gaping erosion of

  industrial repetition this tarred and feathered history”

 

Yet another piece from From the Warring Factions:

“This is not paralysis, by any means, but a kind of shock”

“the intention being suspended” “or lying dormant”

            “an adhesion”

            “an appearance”

 

                        “something not completely palatable”

 

                                                     “like earth and dirt”

 

                                         “the sweetness and the ash”

 

I encourage you to check out Ammiel Alcalay and his work. You won’t be disappointed.

 

Stanford and Cambridge’s Shocking Conclusions: What You Already Knew : P

April 24, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

According to a brand new Stanford study, heterosexual men who are shown erotic pictures of women are more likely to take bigger financial risks than they would normally do if they were under “regular” conditions (whatever that means). This is the first study of its kind that demonstrates a correlation between financial-risk taking and “emotional stimuli,” as the researchers like to call it.

To conduct the test, researchers used fMRIs (functional magnetic resonance images) to view participants’ brains. The participants viewed “positive, negative, or neutral subjects” (whatever that means) and quickly had to make a decision to choose one of two levels of financial risk required in a gambling game” (http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/04/080403104433.htm).

I think the thing that floors me the most about this particular study is who thought of it? It makes sense that in 2005, a researcher, Camelia Kuhnen, conducted a study using fMRIs and concluded that brain activity could be used to evaluate whether or not people were going to take a financial risk. If they were going to take a financial risk, the fMRIs showed that an area in the brain called the nucleus accumbens showed increased activation. If, instead, they were going to choose not to take the risk, the area of the brain called the insula showed increased activation.

For the Stanford study, though, researchers wanted to see if they could influence the activation of the nucleus accumbens through the introduction of irrelevant images. They wondered if the change in activation could actually change behavior. So, researchers took a group of heterosexual, undergraduate, male college students (not the best group…) Erotic images (cough, cough PORN) were used to elicit positive responses, while images of snakes and spiders were used to elicit negative responses. Office supplies were used to trigger neutral responses. Accordingly, just in case office supplies were more repellent than spiders or snakes, “researchers had the men rate each image after the scans. They then derived personalized ratings from each of the participants, which were used to make sure that whatever brain activation they observed was properly correlated with the actual emotional response of the viewer.”

Before they entered the MRI machines, each participant was given $10 to “make it real.” A low-risk gamble was a dime; a high-risk gamble was $1. Depending on the randomly generated outcomes, the man’s money was taken from him if he lost, making the circumstances real.

"What we saw is that when they viewed the erotic pictures, the activation in their nucleus accumbens increased compared to the other stimuli, and also that they had increased activation in that region before choosing the high-risk gamble," Knutson, a researcher, said. Researchers than applied a statistical analysis to the results and concluded that, "After people had seen those erotic pictures, they tended to pick the high-risk gamble more often, especially if they had been picking the low-risk gamble before.”

What does this mean?

“The findings have implications for what might make emotional appeals effective or ineffective in applications ranging from advertising to finance to politics and, perhaps not surprisingly, gambling.” "If you go to the casinos, people are wearing skimpy costumes, they're giving you free alcohol, there are bells and lights and things like that, which don't necessarily seem related to the odds of the gambling," Knutson said. "But these are cues that might activate brain regions that encourage risk-taking and therefore get people to gamble more."

 

More Original Work!

April 22, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

"and the meek"

I.

“and the meek shall inherit the earth” there they will suffer and crawl broken on the wheel but they’re not in the Inferno instead the meek writhe on the land grasp handfuls of dirt throw them fruitlessly at their oppressors

“us and them” labels constructed to keep the other away
contamination nation
one forgets
and the earth shall inherit the meek…
but it shall be in vain

 

II.

i finger my tooth and the pain the root extends too large for my mouth to contain a nail is being hammered through my gums break
my mouth that i may not speak
to you
you are banging in my head the bells chime in the tower and they are
blind to the cries of the homeless
and they lay
in wait for
change

III.

“clothe the colorless in light”
take
their hats at the door
finger-paint chains
around their necks draw them into a box
color in their hopes with blood is on our door
but it’s not Passover
we gave up Jesus for Lent

 

Some Original Work

April 18, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

I would love to know what you think!

Brookland Blues

  My bare feet hit the pavement of the sidewalk, hard, heart pounding, going somewhere, going nowhere? It’s cold. Below freezing in February. There is glass all over the sidewalk, shattered like the squares of a crossword puzzle. The sudden pain in my lower back causes me to stumble, but there’s no one there to see. It’s early in the morning, one or two. I have no jacket so I wrap my arms around myself to drive off the cold. The night roots me like Daphne to a spot near the fence and I wait.

  I wait for who knows what – for my toes to freeze, to fall down a rabbit-hole like Alice, for the pavement to end, for the night to engulf me like a snake swallowing his prey whole. I close my eyes and imagine grinding my feet into the glass, stomping, jumping, impaling and of what you would say if you knew my thoughts.

  I look back at the porch; the white house is my torture chamber. The white house is your Guernica. In it we debate the ethics of homicide, killing each other, again and again. We look for words in the words, fronts in the affronts. We climb on them like jungle gyms, chase one another across the playground, pump as high as we can on the swings and jump off, having dared who can jump the farthest? We land on the ground running, fall down when we are tired, and rise up again for the same reason.

 I walk along, towards the other side of DC, toward the lights and the glitz, the glamour and the high-end restaurants, the people with their cell phones, Blackberries, and Bluetooths, towards the universities that cost $50,000 or more a year, and wonder what you are doing. If I knew that you had thrown my things onto the porch and locked the door I would have kept walking, forever, into the night.

  I keep going along my path, past the CVS, past the 21 hour Chinese place, past the vacant buildings and run down facades, past the barred doors and windows of storefronts. I should turn back but I won’t, at least not yet. There is evidence of the homeless – plastic cups for their daytime begging, gray blankets with lumps underneath, and empty liquor bottles. 

I lose feeling in my feet. I think of the homeless man I used to know. His name was Kenneth and he lived in Georgetown Park by the library. He was a behemoth – a good 6’5,” massive hands, and pockmarked skin. He wore the gray, city-distributed blankets around his neck like capes and wandered through the streets, taking up the entire sidewalk. He carried a large walking stick, a tree branch that he could have easily broken off of a low-hanging limb with one hand. During the daytime, he would spread his blanket on the lawn of Georgetown Park, lie on his side and sip a can of cheap beer, his pants unzipped and his penis hanging out. Sometimes he would have a newspaper with him and would read in the sunny afternoon, never neglecting the imaginary person lying across from him.

My fingers are tingling. A car drives by and “¡Como se llama, baby!” is spat at me from the open window. I’ll be damned if I’m going to walk along the street and be catcalled after like a prostitute. Fuck you. Fuck you that I’m out here walking alone, that I’m out here at all. I glance to the right where an occasional car rolls past and to the left             where the ­buildings blend into the night creating a camouflaged cage of prison cells.

I could march home to my warm bed in our cozy enclave, wallow in our pathetic fallacies, and offer up apologies like a priest raises up a Communion tablet to his God to bless, but I won’t fold. I am paper. I will not be made into Origami. The homeless, Kenneth, commune on the wafer of human generosity, a food rationed on the whims of the passerby. Give them this day their daily bread, or let them starve to condemn their trespasses against you.

 I could enter through the fortress gates of the white house, ask you to play “Rock, Paper, Scissors.” We’ll count, “one, two, three” and my paper will always cover your rock. Best out of three? You’ll throw the same, thinking I’ll change, but I don’t. Two zero. My paper does not fold.    

  I can no longer bear the cold that has entered my lungs and made breathing difficult. I’ve walked nearly a mile and crave the space heater that I insist we keep on my side of the bed. I cross the road, walk a block to the next street, and continue, sometimes walking in a straight line, sometimes following the cracks, and other times seeing how long I can balance on my tip-toes. Finally, after an agonizingly long walk, I reach the steps to the white picket fence. It is not Oz that I enter into, but it is more than Kenneth has. I crawl into bed without saying a word, turn on the heater, and drift into sonorous sleep.

  I awake. It is past dawn. The sun peers into the window from over the buildings, from beyond the dome of the National Cathedral. I sit up and resolve to “shoot up the veins of another new morning.”

 

The New Pornographers – Concert Review

April 17, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

On Tuesday night, my best friend, Jess, and I went to the 9:30 Club in Washington, DC to see The New Pornographers in concert. I had seen them back in September when they played at the 9:30 Club, but I don’t remember that show being anything like this one. Jess and I took the metro to U St. On the bus that took us to the metro station, we were listening to the opening band, Okkervil River, on Jess’ i-pod. After less than three songs, we decided to skip the opening band in favor of doing something cooler. We knew we were near Busboys and Poets, a famous Washington, DC bookstore, restaurant, and hang-out. Visit www.busboysandpoets.com for more information. We checked out the bookstore, read some poetry and left just in time to walk to the 9:30 Club and get there just before The New Pornographers went onstage. Mission accomplished: crappy opening band missed!

We went upstairs to the balcony area and got a really good place to stand. The New Pornographers came on and played six songs before they even said hello. The show was chill, one of the most relaxed I’ve ever been to. They had minimum lights and a bare stage. All of the seven members of the band were onstage (a great feat, as they normally don’t all appear together!) creating a massive force of music right in your face! The members are all in and have been in other capacities in the industry. Neko Case (swoon!) does the lead vocals and is also a solo artist and member of Maow and Cub, Carl (A.C.) Newman (lead guitar and lead vocals) who solos as A.C. Newman and of Superconductor and Zumpano, Kathryn Calder (keyboards, backup vocals) of Immaculate Machine were the three most interesting to watch and were in the front. Behind them were, in no particular order, Dan Bejar of Destroyer and Swan Lake, John Collins of The Evaporators, Kurt Dahle of Limblifter and Age of Electric, Todd Fancey, a solo artist (as Fancey) and Limblifter, and Blaine Thurier, an independent filmmaker. The variety that each member brings to the band is refreshing and quite a creative benefit. The last four members were the guys in the back and were quite lackluster and never looked at the audience once! They might as well not have even been there! I’m not saying that their anti-social presence detracts from their technical ability, just that it’s nice to develop a rapport with the audience.

Neko Case had broken her ankle so she spent most of the night sitting on a barstool onstage and concealing her pain – very well, better than I could have done in her situation. She is completely worth seeing. Her voice is gorgeous, strong, and beautiful, a modern Stevie Nicks, down to the tiny twang in her voice.

The New Pornographers performed a few of their very popular songs, but not enough, at least for Jess : D Obviously, they played “Mass Romantic,” “Twin Cinema,” etc. but they also played “Testament to Youth in Verse,” “Laws Have Changed,” etc. After their approximately 70 minute set and much applause they did an encore, the first song was an AWESOME cover of ELO’s “Don’t Bring Me Down.” That song was the most popular song of the show. The mostly rigor mortised audience really got down and boogied. I say this as a joke, as the guy in front of Jess and I was doing every lame move from every generation but our own. He was a hoot, to start, but grew very, very annoying. After “Don’t Bring Me Down” they slid into “Sing Me Spanish Techno,” one of my favorite songs, just because it’s so damn catchy!

A good night was had by all. All by had was night good a.

 

 

 

My Campaign to Bring Proper Grammar to the World Wide Web

April 14, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

With less than three weeks of school left, I should be doing my homework, getting ahead on my final papers, and trying to get as much sleep as possible. Instead, I haven’t done much of the above. I have been reading and editing submissions non-stop for Georgetown University’s two literary magazines, The Anthem and The Georgetown College Journal. Normally, the pieces are grammatically sound with only a few minor errors. Other times I’m not so lucky.

Saturday night I was up until midnight reading through submissions, making comments, and correcting grammar. The very last piece that I read was the piece from Hell. It was single-spaced, six pages, and I swear to you that nearly every sentence had at least three errors. The entire document was covered in a sea of red after I was finished with it. That story alone made me so frustrated that I decided to take up a one-woman campaign for the betterment of grammar everywhere!

To begin, I decided to try out my campaign on the World Wide Web. I began with Model Mayhem, a social networking site for models, photographers, make-up artists, hair stylists, etc. Although it can channel Myspace at times, Model Mayhem is also a site for professional transactions and actual networking so it’s important to appear professional and not let your bad grammar detract from your portfolio. As I look through profiles on the site, I always notice atrocious grammatical errors and embarrassing misspellings (one photographer has “shudder” instead of “shutter” and many models spell “model” with two l’s…)

To combat the terrible grammar on the site, I posted a new thread in the Forums under “critique.” Normally models and photographers seek critique for their work in that section of the forum or offer to critique others. Mine was a new brand of justice that not many were prepared for. I will repost what I wrote as the leading post:

“I've noticed that a lot of profiles on MM contain misspellings, grammar errors, and other unsightly mistakes. Not only is it unprofessional, it detracts from the quality of your work.

For the first 100 people to respond to this posting and also send me a PM, I will proofread the text on your profile for free.

Who's first?

Cheers!
Stephanie”

Responses varied from “I salute your idea.  It seems necessary and original around here.
Sloppy profiles are a warning that sloppiness may show up in other areas” to “My Mom was a substitute English teacher......it better be good or I'm in big trouble” to “This is an awesome idea! I definitely simply usually grumble and groan to myself when I see the awful state of people's proofreading skills. You are inspirational. Maybe next time I work myself up in a sweaty heat I'll try to do something similar. Anyway, feel free to examine mine. Although, my problems probably are not grammar but tone.” That was from a guy whose profile reads:

“Schizophrenics, those with excessive scars, those who think they are superheros, amputees, those recently out of the hospital with violent injuries, street fighters, anybody with a bizarre obsession with animals-stuffed or normal, mystics that can endure pain, firewalkers, people with interesting and beautiful vericose veins, those who have been chaste their entire lives, those unsure of their gender, I call you. Contact me.

Like those called out by Madame Psychosis: "the acromegalic and hyperkeratosistic. The enuretic... the spasmodically torticollic. Those with atrophic limbs. And yes chemists and pure-math majors also those with atrophic necks. Scleredema adultorum. The tabescent and chachetic and anorexic. The Brag's-Diseased, in their heavy rinds of flesh. The fermally wine-stained or carbuncular or steatocryptotic or God forbid all three. Marin-Amat Synndrome. The psoriatic. The exematically shunned. And the scrofulodermic. Bell-shaped steatopygiacs, in your special slacks. Aflictees of Pityriasis Rosea.

I call you.

I would love to do projects with you.”

I can see why he thinks he has problems with tone… At that point I pretty much was just like, “next!”

Eventually some people decided to be witty or just plain smart asses with, “sure, just one question. If our ports are grammatically correct, can MySpAcE people understand them?” and “if my profile was all spelt correctly then it wouldnt be mine..........”

I started the thread as a rant, but a lot of people responded to it that I didn’t think would. For example, foreigners who don’t speak the best English jumped on my offer to have their profiles contain smoother English, one girl was thrilled to have her profile “Americanised,” as she called it, and my favorite:

“I understand international profiles needing a proofread, poor grammar and spelling just drive me nuts. Most typical errors that kills me is the mixing up of "your" and "you're".

Being a foreigner myself I still make mistakes, yet it bothers me and I actually offered a photographer some spelling advice the other day.” Good for her!  

I sign off, hoping that you will write using grammatically correct words and phrases and help out the cause! :D

 

 

“…and the Meek Shall Inherit the Earth:” A Little Love for 2112

April 10, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

As stated many times in my writing before, Rush – Geddy Lee, Neil Peart, and Alex Lifeson – is one of my all-time favorite bands. Ever. Their 1976 album, 2112, put Rush on the music map… the big-times. Of course, before 2112, Rush released the eponymous Rush in 1974 (although Neil Peart was not yet the drummer, it was John Rutsey) and Fly By Night and Caress of Steel in 1975. In 1976, Rush released 2112 which brought them wide commercial success and fame and their first platinum album in Canada. According to a 2006 poll, Planet Rock listeners picked 2112 as the “definitive Rush album.”

The album is 39 minutes and 6 seconds long. The eponymous “2112” track is 20 minutes and 31 seconds – a little more than half of the album. Although the track in its entirety is 20 minutes and 31 seconds, Rush released the first two sections, “Overture” and “Temples of Syrinx” as a single, making the song more palatable. The single is often played on classic rock and rock radio stations.

The first section of “2112” is entitled “Overture” and consists of an instrumental that ends with the words, sung, “... and the meek shall inherit the Earth…” Apparently, the Overture also consists of a guitar adaptation of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. Then it goes into “Temples of Syrinx” with the lyrics:

Preface:

... the massive grey walls of the temples rise from the
Heart of every federation city. I have always been awed
By them, to think that every single facet of every life is
Regulated and directed from within! Our books, our music,
Our work and play are all looked after by the benevolent
Wisdom of the priests...

 “We’ve taken care of everything
The words you hear, the songs you sing
The pictures that give pleasure to your eyes
It’s one for all and all for one
We work together common sons
Never need to wonder how or why”

Obviously, the lyrics are describing a socialist society, one that Neil Peart based off of Ayn Rand’s Anthem. Basically, in the year 2062 (not so far away!), a galaxy-wide war results in the union of all planets under the rule of the Red Star of the Solar Federation. The world is controlled by the Priests of the Temples of Syrinx. The Priests control everything – music, art, writing, everything. In the third section, “Discovery,” a man finds what used to be called a guitar in a cave and begins to experiment with the “muscles that vibrate and make music.” Excited, he takes it to the Priests who destroy the guitar in section four, “Presentation.” Section five is “Oracle: The Dream” where the man goes back to the cave where he found the guitar and has a dream where an oracle leads him to a land of incredible beauty and tranquility. After the man wakes up, he cannot believe he just had a dream, as it seemed so real. The sixth section, “Soliloquy,” consists of the rest of the man’s time in the cave where he becomes increasingly depressed and takes his life. The seventh and final section, “Grand Finale,” ends with a planetary battle in the solar federation. The final lines, spoken, are, “Attention all planets of the Solar Federation. Attention all planets of the Solar Federation. We have assumed control.”  

Check out 2112! I’ve included a link right here for your convenience!

Parts I, II, and III!

 

 

 

The Day From Hell - Even Dante Couldn't Have Thought Up Something So Terrible...

April 09, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

Thirteen and a half hours. 13 ½ hours. Spent doing what, one might ask? Pretty much absolutely NOTHING. To start my story, I must go back to Friday April 4^th...

Around noon on Friday, I logged into my Model Mayhem account and saw a message from a photographer inviting me to a shoot on Sunday. It would be at a DC hair salon with a few other models with a CD of our pictures and tear sheets for our portfolios as compensation for the shoot. For those of you who don’t know what tear sheets are, they are a page in a published product that you can put in your portfolio as evidence you were in a published place. I called the photographer and told him I would love to be in the shoot. He told me to be at the salon at 10:00 am Sunday morning with a bag of shoes. Easy enough, right?

At 10 am Sunday morning, I was outside of the salon freezing my ass off in the rain. We (myself and the other six models) waited for an hour for the salon to be opened and a half an hour for the photographer. Usually photographers are all over models for flaking out or being late, but every single one of us was on time or early, while the photographer and the hair stylists were late. It took the hair stylists another half hour to set up, and then they made wigs for an hour. They used three models to make wigs and the rest of us sat around. An hour after that, the three stylists started doing hair but only on the same girls they had been previously working on. The rest of us tried to be cheery and pretend like we were happy just setting around…

At that point it was already after 1:00, we were STARVING and bored. Finally, at about 3:00, they started on my hair. After my hair was styled, I had to wait about two hours for the make-up artist to start on me. Then that took an hour. The make-up was good, but nothing so intricate that it should have taken an hour. Finally, after 6:00, I was able to get dressed in my first outfit. Every model was supposed to have three looks – three different hair styles and three different outfits. That’s 21 looks total. The photographer only began shooting at about 6:00 pm. Even then, he spent most of his time photographing his two favorite models (when he actually WAS photographing) and spent more than most of the time doing absolutely nothing at all.

Fast forward to 11:00 pm. I had been waiting for more than an hour in my second look – second dress and second hairstyle. I was tired, cranky, and HUNGRY. There had been NO food provided during the 13 ½ hours I was there. Granted, there were a few snacks – junkfood – chips, donuts, and some water, but that was it. Quite conducive to having high energy… Finally, at 11:40 pm, I said, “I have to go. I’m taking the metro back to Georgetown and I need to make the last train.” I had spent about 15 minutes out of the 13 ½ past wasted hours in front of the camera. Not even. PATHETIC.

The biggest kicker of all, though, was that when I left at 11:40, three girls hadn’t had any photographs taken of them yet, one wasn’t even dressed and just had her make-up recently finished. I was ripped that it had taken 13 ½ hours for me, but if I were them, I think I would have killed somebody.

So, the moral of my story is, friends shouldn’t let friends be models! : P

 

What to do When Your iPod Doesn't Work?

April 05, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

I'm upset. My iPod doesn't work. Granted, I've owned it since 2004 (I think), possibly earlier, but I haven't really used it all that much until the past few years. It's a 60 GB, white, and just doesn't turn on anymore. I just got it to turn on but it froze during one of the songs the last time I turned it on and wouldn't turn off. Now it gives me a sad face and instructs me to go to a support website. I just tried to turn it on again and now it works. Who know what the hell is going on?

For as great as Apple products are, like the Mac computer, software and interfaces, their iPods certainly have a lot of kinks. When I first got my iPod, I had to frequently restore it, wiping all of the information off of it. When it was still under warranty, I actually sent it in once and had Apple send a brand new one to me. I don’t remember the reason but I do remember that I was very excited to have gotten a brand new one : D

The hassle of the iPod is almost not worth its advantages. There are so many horror stories – online, or in your family or with your friends. There is even a http://www.anythingbutipod.com/. Most problems center on the battery life of the iPod, but are there any alternatives to having an iPod? They command the mp3 market and are synonymous with the phrase “mp3 players.”

A few alternatives include Rockbox where one can play GameBoy games on his mp3 player, the iRiver S10 (which sounds like a car, the Mazda S10) which also has an FM tuner (remember the Walkman?), and the Microsoft Zune, from the Microsoft Corporation, with a wireless capability for sharing songs with other Zunes. The Zune Marketplace was Microsoft’s alternative to Apple’s iPod, and although it has a few downsides for normal iPod users, it has undergone great reviews.

I did a Google search for “iPod command of market” and got back quite a few articles. Here are the titles of a few – “Minority Report: the death of the iPod,” “Mac sales: revisitng iPod’s ‘halo effect,’” and “Opinion: Why Microsoft’s Zune scares Apple to the core.” The five reasons that author Mike Elgan gives as to why Microsoft’s Zune scares Apple to the core are:

1. Microsoft is hatching a consumer media "perfect storm."
2. The Zune is social and viral.
3. Zune may have more programming.
4. Zune’s screen is better for movies.
5. Zune is actually pretty cool.

Despite the primitive nature of the final reason, Elgan does provide compelling arguments for his opinions. You can read the entire article here if you’re so inclined: http://www.computerworld.com/action/article.do?command=printArticleBasic&articleId=9003718

Until a company breaks iPod’s hold on the market, though, we are pretty much as consumers, slaves to their reign, unless we actively choose to buy something different.

 

Model Mayhem - Actual Madness

April 04, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

Recently, I have been spending all, and I mean ALL, of my free time on a social networking site for models, photographers, make-up artists, hair stylists, wardrobe stylists, etc. called Model Mayhem. It's great... when it works. Usually, it doesn't. There's always an, "Unexpected error" or "database not found." My favorite frequently occurring error of all time is when the portfolio section of Model Mayhem doesn't work. To be clearer, models and photographers have no pictures to show what they or their work looks like. An excellent thing for a social networking site based entirely on aesthetics…

The site has plenty of other bugs. It never loads properly, it frequently runs off of backup servers due to the huge amount of bandwidth it occupies, and it's really, under all the pretty pictures, just a non-functional version of Myspace.

Sticking with the theme of Myspace, a lot of the profiles on Model Mayhem look like they belong on Myspace. Entire “portfolios” are comprised of shoddy one-armed pictures that scream “Myspace!” If that’s what you’re going for, cool; if not, at least have your mom or a friend take your pictures! Save us the pain!

Just like on Myspace, some people on Model Mayhem are really creepy. For example: there are and will be “photographers” (GWCs – guys with cameras) two or three times your age that tell you that you are “hot” or that they “wish they were there” during a shoot. Gross. Of course, on the other hand, there are a lot of nice people who return comments, send you messages, genuinely take an interest in you, etc.

Model Mayhem has plenty of forums where you can bitch, whine, moan, get your portfolio critiqued, balk at the rudeness of other photographers or models, and most importantly NETWORK. Networking is the name of the game. You also have to look good, be disciplined when you get a job, and have a good attitude and be professional. The world of modeling summed up in a sentence.

Many photographers tell models to "forget Model Mayhem," because "if you want to make it to the top you have to aim for the top." I think this is true to a certain extent, but one must  be grounded before they can make it to the top. Just my two cents...

 

What is With the Weather?

March 31, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

What, I ask, is with the weather? I live in Washington, DC and right now the cherry blossoms should be in bloom. For 2008, their peak bloom forecast is from March 27-April 3, although they will be out from March 26-April 9. It is now March 30^th and FYI, they haven’t bloomed yet. I saw one tree that had bloomed today. Climatologists would have you know that the blossoms have been blooming earlier than they should, although there have always been fluctuations. The earliest they ever bloomed was March 15^th in 1990, and the latest they ever bloomed was April 18^th in 1958.  

The average date of bloom is April 4^th and the Cherry Blossom Festival dates are based around that date. If one visits this website, they can see the stages of a blooming cherry blossom: http://www.nps.gov/nama/planyourvisit/cherry-blossom-bloom.htm. Let me tell you that it’s quite interesting… Also on the website is a chart of the blooming stages from 1992 through 2008. So far they haven’t reached peak bloom yet… I wait.

The reason I wait is because today I had a photo shoot on the National Mall, specifically around the Smithsonian castle area with Julius, doing business as JayQube Photography. It was a great shoot but sooooooooo cold! By the end of the shoot, it was about 49 degrees and I was frozen through in my skimpy sundress. The point of the shoot was to photograph me with the cherry blossoms in the background, but as they aren’t in bloom yet, the plan was quickly nixed. We’re going to try again on April 13^th. I hope to God that I don’t miss the cherry blossoms like I did last year. That would be depressing. I was at the National Mall two times last year within five days of each visit and I completely missed the cherry blossoms! Was I pissed…

The history of the cherry blossom tradition begins in 1885 with a Ms. Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore, a Washingtoninan who traveled to Japan and came back with the proposal that cherry blossoms be planted in Washington, DC along the Potomac waterfront. She tried for 24 years to get cherry blossoms planted, but it took until 1906 when Dr. David Fairchild, a US Department of Agriculture official, imported 75 cherry blossoms and 25 weeping trees from Japan and had them planted on his own land in Maryland. After three years of promoting the cherry tree, Eliza Scidmore wrote a letter to President Taft’s wife, First Lady Helen Herron Taft, telling her of her intent to raise money, buy cherry trees and then donate them to the city. A day after First Lady Taft’s response, a visiting Japanese chemist, Dr. Jokichi Takamine, donated 2,000 cherry blossoms to the city to be planted along the speedway. 

In 1910, it was decided by the US Department of Agriculture that the trees should be burnt because they were infested with diseases and insects. After the destruction of the diseased trees, 3,020 more were imported and planted in Washington, including around the White House. 1935 marked the first Cherry Blossom Festival and it quickly became an annual event. Now there are thousands of tourists who clog up the streets and the metro and very quickly get on the nerves of this girl!   

 

Poet and You Don’t Know It

March 30, 2008 by Stephanie L. Grant

I don’t know how many of you read poetry (whether it’s for high school or college, for fun, or for consolation), but if you don’t, you should. There are websites such as www.shortpoems.org or http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/ that will send you a poem a day to your email for you to enjoy, completely taking the burden of seeking out poetry for yourself off of you. A poem a day isn’t too much – just one extra email to read every day for the sake of enlightenment, intellectual stimulation, or personal growth. I’m all for it.

MTV is too, apparently. They named John Ashbery, to his utter chagrin, the MTV poet laureate. Personally, John Ashbery is way too good of a poet and American icon for MTV to taint. Next, MTV (specifically mtvU) is going to host a poetry contest for college students whose winner will be chosen by Yusef Komunyakaa. The prize for the winner of the poetry contest will be having a book of their poetry published by HarperCollins as part of the National Poetry Series.

““We hope that we’ll help discover the next great poet that we’ll be talking about for years to come,” said Stephen K. Friedman, the general manager of mtvU, which broadcasts at 750 campuses nationwide.” This is a nice idea, but honestly, how many people that watch MTV are A) in college, B) care even a little bit about poetry, and C) care about some 80 year old fogie that is their “poet laureate.”

Moving on from MTV, I want to mention a few poets that are worthy or a read – whether it’s just one poem or an entire book or two. First, Gwendolyn Brooks. Brooks was born in 1917 and is considered a mid-20^th century poet because she primarily wrote mid-century. Her most famous poem, she laments, is “We Real Cool” which goes:

We real cool. We 
Left school. We 

Lurk late. We 
Strike straight. We 

Sing sin. We 
Thin gin. We 

Jazz June. We 
Die soon.

We read five books of hers for class – A Street in Bronzeville, Annie Allen, The Bean Eaters, In The Mecca, and selections from Primer for Blacks. Brooks’ work was received on the one hand, with fervor by the critics, and met with disappointment by her contemporary blacks. A poem worth reading that presses women’s issues is called “the mother:”

Abortions will not let you forget.
You remember the children you got that you did not get,
The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair,
The singers and workers that never handled the air.
You will never neglect or beat
Them, or silence or buy with a sweet.
You will never wind up the sucking-thumb
Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
You will never leave them, controlling your luscious sigh,
Return for a snack of them, with gobbling mother-eye.

I have heard in the voices of the wind the voices of my dim killed
children.
I have contracted. I have eased
My dim dears at the breasts they could never suck.
I have said, Sweets, if I sinned, if I seized
Your luck
And your lives from your unfinished reach,
If I stole your births and your names,
Your straight baby tears and your games,
Your stilted or lovely loves, your tumults, your marriages, aches,
and your deaths,
If I poisoned the beginnings of your breaths,
Believe that even in my deliberateness I was not deliberate.
Though why should I whine,
Whine that the crime was other than mine?--
Since anyhow you are dead.
Or rather, or instead,
You were never made.
But that too, I am afraid,
Is faulty: oh, what shall I say, how is the truth to be said?
You were born, you had body, you died.
It is just that you never giggled or planned or cried.

Believe me, I loved you all.
Believe me, I knew you, though faintly, and I loved, I loved you
All.

Another favorite poet of mine who although younger than Gwendolyn Brooks wrote at the same time as her is Adrienne Rich. At the ripe old age of 22, Adrienne Rich was selected to receive the Yale Series of Younger Poets prize by W.H. Auden. She continued, becoming a noted feminist author. I am including the first poem from her first book, A Change of World, entitled “Storm Warnings:”

The glass has been falling all the afternoon,
And knowing better than the instrument
What winds are walking overhead, what zone
Of grey unrest is moving across the land,
I leave the book upon a pillowed chair
And walk from window to closed window, watching
Boughs strain against the sky

And think again, as often when the air
Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting,
How with a single purpose time has traveled
By secret currents of the undiscerned
Into this polar realm. Weather abroad
And weather in the heart alike come on
Regardless of prediction.

Between foreseeing and averting change
Lies all the mastery of elements
Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter.
Time in the hand is not control of time,
Nor shattered fragments of an instrument
A proof against the wind; the wind will rise,
We can only close the shutters.

I draw the curtains as the sky goes black
And set a match to candles sheathed in glass
Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine
Of weather through the unsealed aperture.
This is our sole defense against the season;
These are the things we have learned to do
Who live in troubled regions.

I will finish with a paragraph about Gwendolyn Brooks by Adrienne Rich:

“Gwendolyn Brooks's poetry plumbs our national psyche. She has for decades been a leading force in American poetry, illuminating for us all a little-understood dimension of American life. Accomplished in her craft from the first, Brooks developed a highly flexible line and multivocal language that have allowed her to move with authority between the lyric and the prophetic. Her work ranges from exquisite satire to lamentation; from precise microcosmic narratives of the human condition to apocalyptic meditations. She has accorded heroic stature to the lives of women in the African American community, while never ceasing to speak for and to that community as a whole. Her poetry holds up a mirror to the American experience entire, its dreams, self-delusions and nightmares. Her voice is inimitable.”