Who knew Haiti's tragedy held so much treasure?

I think the idea of fund-raising for Haiti- through a student group- so you can show how you're not 'heartless bastards' is despicable. I wish there were a word stronger than despicable that I felt was adequate, that is how FURIOUS I am.

At least when I was on the board we didn't gloat or seek out anyone with the two grand we gave away. We just did it because that was what we decided we were going to do with the money. It got asked about on a radio show for atheists, but that was it, the only press about it. But this?

Haiti relief! Let's find a secular org that's taking donations - I know center for inquiry is doing something, tons of groups/orgs are. Let's get on the train eh? ... [Name redacted], want to find some organizations for this? It's great PR! Also, we could easily get the Daily to write about it ... I'm all for cutting a few big checks here, but we should try to get a little publicity too. Y'know, we're not all heartless bastards and such.

This makes my blood BOIL. The first part? AWESOME. Let's find some organisations, let's donate, let's realise this is about 3 million people whose lives were already pretty shite to begin with. Let's realise this is about the need for clothing, for shelter, for preventing disease, for fucking clean water. Let's realise this has nothing to do with us, not even a little bit.

The second part? And the third part? OH HALE NO! You should not make this about YOU and your fucking precious UNIVERSITY ORGANISATION. NOT ONE FUCKING WHIT. If ANY media approach you without you pursuing them and want to talk to your organisation? Fine, I understand the human interest appeal of well-off, extremely privileged, mostly white kids giving to a nation of 80% poverty who are suffering and who have suffered natural disaster after natural disaster.

But to seek it out yourself makes you vain, it makes you vapid, it makes you vacuous! It does not make you look like compassionate people moved by the HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE, BEYOND-WORDS TRAGEDY that has befallen a poor, impoverished nation. It does not make you look like you're an intelligent group of people, like you so desperately want to be. How pathetic do you have to be to want to seek gain from this? Not monetary gain, no, but still a gain. You want to prove to the world that atheists aren't heartless bastards? Stop mocking the quiet faith of people, start reaching across the table and working with religious communities, and for the love of everything that can be held dear to someone's heart, give money and don't shout it from the rooftops.

This is beyond disgusting, and beyond redemption. I am washing my hands, and I am DONE. I will NOT attach myself to these people. I refuse.

And if there is even a HINT that ANY publicity was sought after, I will rain whatever hellfire I can upon this organisation. There are few things in the world I despise more than anyone trying to make a GAIN off of terrible tragedy. Gain off of thousands and thousands dead and three million affected. GAIN. Who thinks that could possibly, EVER, be okay?

So bring it, bitches. Try me. I dare you.

identity crisis

trigger warning: suicide

There are words, dancing and slipping and twirling in my head. And they don't come out. They stay there, time and time again. Whether it is emails to Liv, or the Christmas card for Ben, or the letters to Jay, or the rainbows- the dancing glittering rainbows that don't really require words, but contain them anyway- for Cassie.

And then they are gone, and I try to recreate them, and I cannot.

Sometimes they are stories that will never get told and exist in something that was once my memory, but is now worse than Limbo, for it doesn't exist at all. Some of them are stories of my life, and some of them are just stories. And none of them exist any more.

I can feel the jumble of 26 characters drifting away, the passion, the love ebbing down and away, and it's not like the tide because I cannot feel it coming back at all. There is no nipping in the middle of the night of words that get pressed to paper, or pixels to screen. They stay, circling in my head until they are gone.

I am losing my words and I do not know how to find them.

If you asked me six months ago, I would have killed myself and left no words why. And now, now I don't want to die, but still there are no words. There is nothing like comfort, yet there is so much to say. There is the blank screen, and the empty page, and the pens scattered across the room, and a blinking cursor.

I have written my whole life- it is what I am and who I am. I wrote them when I was broken and they were a comfort. I called out to the empty universe and sometimes it wrote back. And now? Now am I not quite so broken in that same way, but the words have gone with the broken. It's a different sort of broken, and I don't know how to fix it.

I am losing my words and I do not know how to get them back.

Once, I thought if I only stopped taking the pills, maybe I would be terribly miserable and depressed, but I could have my words. It wasn't to be. I stopped cold turkey and had vertigo and headshocks and dug up that old razor blade that I sneaked back out of Liv's room after he took it from me. And it was then, when I had rivers of red and I realised what I was doing to myself, I went back on the pills, and the vertigo stopped, and my head stopped shocking, and I lost the desire to dance lines across my skin in some attempt to feel, to breathe, to love, to create. I always said I would trade anything to get my words back if I lost them. But not this. Turns out there was too high a price to pay- who knew?

And the words stayed dancing and twirling and skipping and slipping in my head. Nothing came to pass.

Maybe this is growing up. Maybe the fact that I've been far better at getting out and DOING things is the point.

I think of Andy and of Garrett and of standing up and using action, and it's wonderful, and a rush, but then I think 'wouldn't it be nice if all the words in my head could join it?' and they never can. And maybe that's growing up, and maybe that's how it's supposed to go. I don't know.

I use/d words as my escape, as my outlet, as my screaming at an unfair world. I took all the unfairness of Timothy's assault and made them beautiful words, dancing a story of two unlikely male lovers across the pages. They, those two fictional men that Jay got me to fall in love with, got me through the worst of it- they kept my sanity. And in high school, when I thought I couldn't bear to live any more, the words skittered across the pages in some sort of cliched, tragic, suburbian poetry that Jason could probably recognise if he saw it. But they kept my sanity.

Now, now something else doesn't keep my sanity- it regulates it so I don't feel as if I am losing it. There is nothing to calm from, there is nothing to keep, for I already have kept it, if that makes any sense at all.

My words have defined me for so long, and now I activist around the place, and I volunteer for politics and believe that my actions make a difference. My words saved me, but my actions are bigger than me. And maybe that's how it's supposed to be, phone calls to people sick of politics, trying to get them to care [oh, how I love the crotchety people- they make this humanity seem real. It's what my words used to do], or protests, or actions, or organising groups of people in a united effort. Maybe it's trying to end a war, or speaking out about why 17-year old girls are NOT like Hitler, not even a little bit. Maybe that's what this is, this life, and that's how this is supposed to go.

So words, whatever you were, and whatever you are, and whatever you will be. Maybe this is goodbye, and maybe this isn't.

Maybe I am just lonely and missing people and missing actions and phone calls and ending wars and tagboard with handwritten signs. Maybe I am missing them instead of words and they are the pieces of my identity now. I don't know.

And you know what?

There's something terrifying, yet brilliant about that.

Ray Comfort's Book is Immoral

I have issues with taking a copy of a public domain scientific book that you vehemently refuse to acknowledge the reason and science behind, and writing a 50 page introduction to that book that attempts to debunk the science and logic behind that book.

I am, of course, talking about Ray Comfort's '150th Anniversary Edition' of Darwin's On The Origin of Species.

The introduction ... attempts to dubunk everything in Darwin's book, and talks up Creationism/ID as some rebuttal against Darwin. I don't even know, okay? I stopped when he invoked Hitler. [Comfort, you have officially Godwined your own introduction. Epic Fail.] I just don't even know where to start with this ... look, the only thing I can add right now is that at the end of it, Comfort offers up Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, and Christianity and compares them to jumping off a plane, and tells you why Christianity is your only parachute. I wish I were making that up. But Ray Comfort means never having to say you're kidding.*

And then I'm supposed to pray.

And then I'm supposed to read this book? Apparently not. Apparently I was given a free book to not read it, but to only read the introduction and realise how terrible Reason, Science, and Logic are.

Now to the immorality of it. I just ... I don't get it. Maybe immoral isn't the best word, but it's the closest one I can think of. At best it's dishonest, which is ... oh yeah, immoral. In that vein, I set out to do all I could to keep this immorality away from youngling college students. So I put on my hat, grabbed two bags, tossed on a sweatshirt and headed out to the Ray Comfort people handing out free books at the U. I walked past the first group of people and got a book. I walked past the second group, got a book. I walked past the third group, got a book. Fourth group, book. Fifth, book. Then I doubled around, took off my sweatshirt and hat, and repeated. After the second rotation, I starting asking for one for my roommate who was in class, or at work, or in lab. Some groups gave me two, some didn't. After my 22nd book, on attempt to get book 23 and 24, two of the groups were restocking at the main table. I approached for my book, but one of the other men recognised me, and denied me the book. A woman then told me she recognised me too.

The mission was aborted, but I walked away with 22 books. One of which is actually for one of my roommates, one of which is for me. Stitch, in the picture, is posing with all 22 of them. [That quilt, I'd also like to point out, was made by my mother 17 years ago.]

That leaves 20 books. What the heck should I do with them? Any thoughts?

*There's this blogger I follow, Cleolinda, who writes Movies in 15 Minutes, a popular blog doing exactly what it sounds like- writing hilarious recaps of movies. She even has a book for those really interested. Well, she's done M15M for the Twilight books. And one of the things she's said about them is ... "Twilight means never having to say you're kidding". So I stole that line from her. Sorry Cleo!

PostSecret at the U of M

So I attended, on the 23rd of October, the PostSecret event at the U of M. [That link takes you to the Facebook page, where you can see the 375 uploaded secrets from [mostly] my collection of postsecrets over the years.

The event started with Frank sharing some of his favourite secrets, as well as the stories behind them. Interwoven in this was the story of his parents, both not really 'getting' the postsecret thing [and it's true- I've found it's really hard to describe postsecret to someone, even after buying them the book and placing a personal secret on the last page]. Frank showed some secrets that were banned from the PostSecret books, for various reasons. And then he shared that Wal-Mart has refused to carry any of the books, which really surprised me. And made me gleeful a bit at the same time. Makes me like the books a little bit more. And then Frank concluded, and told the story of how his wife flew his father out for one of the PostSecret events, and I thought that was really touching, that his father started to get it. I wish my mother got it. I wish I'd mailed in that secret that I stuck in the back of her book. I wish PostSecret was something she and I could share. But I digress.

Then the mics opened up. And here's where it not only got really personal, but it was the point I'd been waiting for; sitting in a dark room with strangers and sharing secrets or stories, or asking Frank questions. And something odd happened. I got up and shared my secret. With 498 strangers. I talked about the secret that has changed my life, and still changes my life, in different moments everyday. Of how it's not even my postcard, but it is very much my secret. And I realise this is going to sound like I'm being coy or something, but I'm leaving that secret in that room, and in that bunch of secrets I linked to. Other people shared secrets, and stories, and cried, and hurt, and it was sad and beautiful all mixed into one. At the very end, a slideshow/video played.

When I left the event, someone I didn't know was going to be there- a friend- came up and approached me and told me how brave I was. I'm not sure if I'm brave. I'm not sure if I've ever been brave, in all the secrets I've kept or created. I've been human though, and so have the secrets, and I suppose that's all that matters. And I suppose that's it.

It feels like words can't really explain the experience of PostSecret, because as much as it is images and stories, it's also tears and laughter, and pieces of humanity that are allowed to just be. Putting that into some sort of adequate phrasing or elegant words ... I can't do that. So I hope this sufficed.

Laughter is so healing.

I love laughter. I love how good it feels to laugh. I love how infectious it is. I love that people who laugh are happy. I love how pure, and simple, and beautiful it is. Not laughter at a television show, or a funny joke, but pure, happiness. That sort of laughter. I love that you can laugh about nothing, about everything, about life and the simple moments. About tiny pieces of humanity that are, in that moment, whole.

I never thought I'd be saying this Saturday night. Saturday night when I curled up and sobbed and wondered why I didn't have anything to help me fall asleep.

I think I dwell too much, sometimes, on what happened; it's so easy to have happen, and then I'm back there and it's real all over again. Sometimes it's incredibly way too easy to get so lost. And Saturday night, I was lost. I was so lost. And I hadn't slept, and I didn't know how to make it from point A to point B, I didn't even know where points A and B were. And so I did what I usually do, and pretended that it was all okay, and that there was nothing wrong, and that I was fine. And usually, that works. [The nights, like Saturday night, and right now, that I sleep on the couch, I think it doesn't work so well, and my room-mates can totally tell and are judging me for it- hey- it's not paranoia if they're really after you.] Usually, I do something like bake, or go shopping, or get out of the damned house and go to a party and drink away.

But something was different about Sunday. I asked a room-mate to 'hang-out' with me [and he, darling that he is, agreed even after we both acknowledged that we fail utterly at the concept of 'hanging out']. And I don't know how to explain it ... but I found the ability to laugh. To really laugh. To get go and stop thinking so much. And it was beautiful. I'm not sure if my room-mate wants to take credit, but if he does, it's all his [And the Recount Story of the Day™ posts with comments from the Kare11 boards. Oh, the goddamn insanity of that election]. I could go on about how surprised I was that it was a him, given the anniversaries and circumstances, but maybe ... maybe that's how it was supposed to happen. I'm not a karmic person. I don't believe in fate. But I do know that if I don't open up and trust, even on tiny friendship levels, I'll never be able to do it- I'll always be walled off. I had another friend send me a really moving, wonderful email after my room-mate went to bed- after I'd sent him a really emotionally email on Saturday night. And it was so relieving to read it, and maybe that's because of the healing laughter with my room-mate from earlier.

But it was love and happy and some degree of peace- and trust. All in tiny steps.

And as long as I've got that love, that trust in tiny steps, and as long as I have healing laughter, I think I'll be okay. I think I'll be able to get through the rest of today, and tomorrow, and the next day, and the next.

jon stewart on 11 september 2001

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
September 11, 2001
www.thedailyshow.com
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on the callousness of humanity

We live in an era of instant news. We live in an area where no matter the privacy or legal concerns, information can be obtained at a price. The IAAF has conducted a humiliating 'gender' test on a young South African athlete named Caster Semenya. [And I could go into how the terminology is all wrong, and how it shouldn't be called a gender or a test at all, but that's an entry for another time.] News that this test was being conducted was made public just before a World championship race the young woman was running in. News of her test, possible results, and questions about her 'gender' have been shouted from around the world. South Africa is protecting and defending one of their own in the best ways they know how.

I cannot imagine being Caster Semenya right now. I cannot imagine my entire life being torn up, and the topic of my body seen as something the entire world has some sort of right to know. I cannot imagine the private shame behind her public face. I cannot imagine what it must be like to not only lose the chance to live my dreams, but to also face the possibility I might 'fail' a 'gender' test [wtf? I didn't even think that was possible. How can you fail a test like this?]. I cannot imagine any of that.

But my heart aches for Caster Semenya tonight. Because the results of her humiliating and degrading test are back. And she has not yet been notified of the results- as I said, South Africa is protecting one of their own. But this information was obtained (and likely for a large sum) and is being spread across instant news channels.

THIS IS AN 18-YEAR OLD GIRL. Who was not famous before her Berlin run. Who is ONLY famous because of this test being conducted. And the media show no mercy. And really, why should anyone expect them to have any compassion for Caster Semenya? Reporting about her brings news- people buy papers, click on news stories, turn into the special report on the evening news. It's sickening. Absolutely sickening.

Her entire life is in the spotlight, and she and her family have not been properly notified. And everyone is eating up this news- and I can't blame media entirely for it, because it's the people too, who demand the news, who read it, who think they have a right to publicly discuss someone else's body. I can't even wrap my head around how angry I am about this. Why? Why do we fall prey so easily to the idea of instant news? Why do we accept that this is somehow okay? That personal, private, medical tests are somehow our right to have knowledge of? Why has no-one at the IAAF considered what this whole ordeal, 'pass' or 'fail' on this test, might do to Caster Semenya? Why has the media not considered this, entertained their own humanity just this once, and left this affair private?

Why have scores upon scores of people failed Caster Semenya?

My heart aches for her, tonight.