At least, not nearly as much as it is a realization that none of this really means all that much to me. I could (in fact, probably should) be studying for calculus right now, but all I want to do is drink tea and listen to Ziggy Stardust and reflect on all the mistakes I’ve made over the past few months. I don’t understand how anyone can do math when there’s a pencil and paper in their hands, because all I can do in a situation like that is just write and write and write.

The most recent project I did for art.

It’s supposed to symbolize the life of a director, leading the theatre-ship forward on a sea of her own words. Or it could just be some badass chick on a boat. Whatever you’d prefer. :P

The first time someone told me they had been sexually assaulted, I was twleve and totally mortified. It just shattered my perception of the world to know that someone would actually behave toward another person in such a way. But the more I heard of such cases, the less of an impact it had on me. It soon became more of an, “Oh, that happened to him/her? How sad.” And somewhere along the line, I became okay with that.

But reading about the recent bus-rape case in India this past week has rekindled that mortification, and made me really reevaluate the way we view such issues in our own society. And it’s almost surprising how so many of our little actions contribute to that abusive mentality.

This post is an attempt to address the college student who views his/her sexual partners as objects, the pro-life activist who fights against the result of an ordeal they’ve never experienced, the well-meaning people who see no issue in establishments like strip clubs and rape-centered jokes. And in no way am I comparing these things to actual rape, but it’s this disregard for the humanity of others that makes such horrific occurrences even possible.

All things in society are connected, and while none of us may be able to prevent what happened in India from happening again, we can protest against such things by acknowledging this humanity as often as possible.

Let’s start living like we’re all people.

Come on, World. That shouldn’t be revolutionary.

“Der dümmste Bauer, der größten Kartoffel.”

These words haunt me sometimes. The guilt such a silly phrase can ignite can give me such many angst.

“The dumbest farmer, the biggest potato.”

It’s something Grandfather Klaus used to tell me, back when I was a Klaus too. My father Klaus, who was actually a farmer, always told me this was a way to explain the bad of his luck. To spend all day in the fields, thinking of Goerthe and Marx, giving his mind the exercise it desired but not being able to grow enough cabbage for us three Klauses. This is the curse of the intellectual, Grandfather Klaus would tell me. To be always somewhere else, always sonstwohin, never succeeding in the demands of the moment. Dumb farmers know nothing of the classics, nothing about Bach or even the Kaiser. But they understand to water, to rake, to work. And so they come home with nothing to tell their families, but enough to keep them fat and happy.

My father Klaus always argued this with grandfather. He said, “Vater, du weißt nicht über Fröhlichkeit!” You do not understand happiness. And this was true. Grandfather Klaus knew nothing of sadness, joy, love, hope. He knew pain, and sleep – and that was all we needed to get through the 1930’s. 

But once the war got over, I wanted to feel things. I wanted Heine and Nietzsche, not big potatoes. So I came to America to sing, to love, to be free. But in my freedom I lost Klaus, I lost Klaus and Klaus as well. In the theatre where I sing they call me Gerard. Gerard is happy, safe, and stable. He has a wife and three beautiful children. But Klaus is still asleep, and in pain. His wife has no way of knowing how little he still cares for her, and his children know nothing of potatoes.

In my thoughts there comes the noise, “Wach auf, deine Träume sind Scheiße!”

“Wake up, your dreams are shit!” Your potatoes are shit, this grand impressive life is shit, and if Grandfather Klaus found out he had an heir called Gerard, he would think it all shit.

The intellectual is always sonstwohin, always somewhere else. And exactly where I am has been a secret to me for almost thirty years. Perhaps sonstwohin doesn’t really exist. Perhaps all this life has to offer is potatoes.

Guys, Obama means family.

And family means nobody votes Romney.

It’s dawning on me that I may be completely incapable of dealing with anger. Just as an emotion, in general. It lives inside of me, eating all the food out of my metaphorical fridge, having wild parties with its friends whenever it feels like it, not even bothering to pay rent. And it just stays there. FOREVER.

Seriously, how do normal people deal with that? I have friends who get mad, and then when I see them a few days later, it’s totally out of their system. With me, it’s like I rarely get angry. But then when I finally do, THERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO TO MAKE IT GO AWAY. AND ALL I WANT TO DO IS YELL AT PASSING CARS AND DESTROY VALUABLE PAINTINGS AND SELF-DESTRUCT. And then something will happen; I’ll eat a nice bowl of cereal or fall asleep, and the angry feelings will go away for a while. But then as soon as the tiniest thing comes up to remind me of whatever was irking me, even years later, ALL THE FEELS COME BACK. And it gets even worse sometimes, because the logical Maddie will know that I’m being totally irrational, but the emotional Maddie doesn’t know how to give up her stark mad rampage.

And it’s totally fucking ridiculous.

Happy Monday mornings. :D

fabledquill:

angerliz:

we should really all get on redefining the term “friendzone” and making it awesome

like YO MARIE YOU WANNA FRIENDZONE FOR A BIT AND TALK, I COULD BE DOWN IN THE ZONE

OH NO DUDE SO I MET THIS CHICK AT A PARTY AND IT TURNS OUT SHE WASN’T INTO ME BUT IT’S TOTALLY OK, GOT FRIENDZONED SO HARD, WE’RE GONNA DO STARBUCKS LATER THIS WEEK AND TALK COMICS PLATONICALLY

and no one was ever a dick about unfortunate feelings ever again

come on y’all we’re going to the zone

the friendzone

Ain’t no party like the ZONE PARTY.

When I was younger I was scared to death of nightmares. But now that I’m older, it’s the wonderful dreams that really fuck with me. And the better the dream is, the more it hurts when I wake up. The more I detest being a person with far too many feelings. And too many feelings is an awful thing to have when you’re chock-full of memories of things that never happened.

So please, Subconscious, let’s not do this anymore. 

I’m not sure why I found this so amusing.