Name: Ianthe M. Belisle Dempsey
Age: 17
Favorite philosopher: Ralph Waldo Emerson
Age: 17
Favorite philosopher: Ralph Waldo Emerson
Been there
Time travel
And, yes!!
I say that time travel
Really does already exist
But not through the sciences
And through physics
But it exists within the power
Of our own minds
To illuminate our own memories
And now through some
Subliminal hypnotic state of mind
One can recede back
Into one's own previous life
Not to extract precise, minute details
But to re-inhabit vague transcendental experiences of pre-existential... optimism
A time before any ability to reason
Is actually set
A time before logic covers
All the dimensions of our thinking
And if we're lucky
We can even dissolve back
To a time of glorious, superhuman
Space and time
A time when all things seem possible
Time travel
And, yes!!
I say that time travel
Really does already exist
But not through the sciences
And through physics
But it exists within the power
Of our own minds
To illuminate our own memories
And now through some
Subliminal hypnotic state of mind
One can recede back
Into one's own previous life
Not to extract precise, minute details
But to re-inhabit vague transcendental experiences of pre-existential... optimism
A time before any ability to reason
Is actually set
A time before logic covers
All the dimensions of our thinking
And if we're lucky
We can even dissolve back
To a time of glorious, superhuman
Space and time
A time when all things seem possible
check these sweet tunes.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
[an appeal to memory]
before sex and drugs,
when all we knew was rock and roll and even that wasn't quite the same
everything just seemed so....
tame
backstreet boys not backstreet dealers
since when are we old enough to trade in bikes for four-wheelers?
bubblegum bubblegum in a dish
how many pieces do you wish
one, two, this one's for you
three, four, not anymore
remember how often i wound up at your door?
my house to yours ain't such a walk
how come since that summer we never talk?
monkey on the ground, no such monkey
that ship has sailed, when that ship sunk we promised things would never change
but i'm feeling worn down like the black crayon out a fresh box
so this is me, without my label
without your classifications are you still stable?
we played with Polly Pockets, saved lockets, made rockets
now you're rolling smokes, telling jokes and I just can't help but mock it
it used to be junk food and movies for the simple joy
now it's ice cream and Pretty in Pink to get over a boy
in junior high we were crushing, in high school we got crushed
remember that guy in homeroom who always made you blush?
he's peddling premature maturity to the kids we used to be
waiting by the park when school gets out at three
Pokémon cards and Crazy Bones, summer days and Sno Cones
now all you care about is getting so blown
and leaving me so alone
remember when i used to have to call you on the house phone?
tying up the line for hours just shooting the breeze
brought our parents to their knees, didn't it?
just begging to know what it was we could talk about for so long
and we just shone in a language all our own
they just didn't get it, did they? and they'd just groan in their grown tone and we'd laugh
we'd laugh until we swore our lungs and livers were bruised
everything just kept us so amused
i wish you'd keep your lungs and livers unabused so we could laugh like that again
laugh at all the girls scrambling for men
why does every Barbie need a Ken?
when she has Skipper and Kelly and Stacie to get her back
you'll always have your girls when your guys are acting whack
when you stop getting calls about how he's in a funk
and now he only rings when he's bored and getting drunk, that punk
keep your weed cause all I need is Ashley Spinelli on my TV
and a recess maybe just to regress back to the good old days...
but this ain't VHS, we don't need to rewind
fast foward scene select to catch us up to time
if there's one good thing about growing up
it's learning how to rhyme
remember the good old days?
before sex and drugs,
when all we knew was rock and roll and even that wasn't quite the same
everything just seemed so....
tame
backstreet boys not backstreet dealers
since when are we old enough to trade in bikes for four-wheelers?
bubblegum bubblegum in a dish
how many pieces do you wish
one, two, this one's for you
three, four, not anymore
remember how often i wound up at your door?
my house to yours ain't such a walk
how come since that summer we never talk?
monkey on the ground, no such monkey
that ship has sailed, when that ship sunk we promised things would never change
but i'm feeling worn down like the black crayon out a fresh box
so this is me, without my label
without your classifications are you still stable?
we played with Polly Pockets, saved lockets, made rockets
now you're rolling smokes, telling jokes and I just can't help but mock it
it used to be junk food and movies for the simple joy
now it's ice cream and Pretty in Pink to get over a boy
in junior high we were crushing, in high school we got crushed
remember that guy in homeroom who always made you blush?
he's peddling premature maturity to the kids we used to be
waiting by the park when school gets out at three
Pokémon cards and Crazy Bones, summer days and Sno Cones
now all you care about is getting so blown
and leaving me so alone
remember when i used to have to call you on the house phone?
tying up the line for hours just shooting the breeze
brought our parents to their knees, didn't it?
just begging to know what it was we could talk about for so long
and we just shone in a language all our own
they just didn't get it, did they? and they'd just groan in their grown tone and we'd laugh
we'd laugh until we swore our lungs and livers were bruised
everything just kept us so amused
i wish you'd keep your lungs and livers unabused so we could laugh like that again
laugh at all the girls scrambling for men
why does every Barbie need a Ken?
when she has Skipper and Kelly and Stacie to get her back
you'll always have your girls when your guys are acting whack
when you stop getting calls about how he's in a funk
and now he only rings when he's bored and getting drunk, that punk
keep your weed cause all I need is Ashley Spinelli on my TV
and a recess maybe just to regress back to the good old days...
but this ain't VHS, we don't need to rewind
fast foward scene select to catch us up to time
if there's one good thing about growing up
it's learning how to rhyme
Labels: childhood, poem, straightedge
Ianthe. posted at 2:14 PM
[it started with a happy meal]
We pulled up to the McDonald's drive-thru and left the car idling, waiting for the speaker to crackle with the voice of some teenage part-time drone.
“Welcome to McDonald's, what can I get for you?” She spoke with a lilt of disinterest, the sort that grows from minimum wage recitation and repetition.
“Uhhh, yes, can I get a, uh, cheeseburger Happy Meal and--”
“No pickles!” I hissed quietly. In my elementary school world, everything was meant to be in nice categories, separable into clean-cut picture book dichotomies. Cheeseburgers were in the “delicious” category. Pickles were overwhelmingly in the “yuck” category. To attempt to combine these stark opposites in one instance would surely cause a universal breakdown and utter chaos.
“--no pickles on the cheeseburger, and a Coke with that.” Papa concluded.
There are several aspects of Happy Meals that make them far superior to less emotional meals – the box itself, with its bright colors, games, and Golden Arches handles. Any child can tell you, though, the absolute best thing about Happy Meals is that they come with toys. Sometimes 101 Dalmatians, sometimes Tomagotchi, always cheap Chinese plastic – it didn't matter. At least, that's what I thought.
“Is the Happy Meal for a boy or a girl?” the speaker droned.
My father was visibly taken aback by the question and replied sternly, “What does it matter?”
“There's two toys, it depends if they're a boy or a girl which one they get.”
“What's the difference?” Papa was irked. I just wanted my cheeseburger, sans-pickles. Man, did I hate pickles. They were like cucumbers that had their souls stolen by the devil.
“The toy for boys is a Hot Wheels car and the toy for girls is a uh, little Barbie doll.”
“Why can't girls play with Hot Wheels?” he demanded. I can't imagine the drive-thru attendant being anything but jarred by this exchange. This wasn't the conversation she was trained to have! Why did he have to raise such a fuss over something stupid like a Happy Meal toy?
“Is the meal for a boy or a girl?” Papa was very obviously displeased, and he turned around to ask me my opinion.
“Do you want Hot Wheels or a Barbie?” he asked.
“Hot Wheels!” It was a no brainer. You can race Hot Wheels around the inside of the car window and what could Barbie do? Sit around and look pretty. That's boring. The decision was made almost instantly.
“It's for a boy.”
■ ■ ■
It wasn't until taking AP Psychology this year that I ever really thought about the concept of “gender identity”. I mean, all children know who's a “tomboy” and who's a “girly boy”, but that was always supposed to be wrong, to not act in accord with your birth certificate. The truth of the matter is, biological sex is completely separate from gender – your own self-concept of being male or female. The idea that your biology and sense of self could be divergent, yet harmonious and complete, was an utter revolution in the way that I framed myself and my upbringing.
I learned in Psychology that children learn and assimilate into gender roles by observing behaviors and being rewarded for mimicking “the correct ones”. Sally, you're such a good mommy to your dollies – Jimmy, put your sister's tea set down, why don't you go play outside? But looking back on my childhood, these gender-specific models were absent. Mama could rock a dress and use a caulking gun and papa took time off of work to raise his kids and keep the roof repaired. My parents did encourage me to take ballet if I wanted to... as long as I didn't miss my karate lessons. I watched wrestling and HGTV back-to-back and never understood why all the good T-shirts at Kohl's were in the boys' section. I saw nothing wrong with climbing trees in a dress as long as nobody was standing under me. I could never completely fit in with “the guys”, but I never really felt at home with “the girls” either.
Alas, the world works the way I thought it did in elementary school – it necessitates dichotomies. Feminine/masculine exist to parallel delicious/yuck. And we all know what happens when you try to combine such dire opposites – utter chaos.
And chaos, I am finding out, is a pretty sweet deal.
I've taken the liberty of just completely rejecting gender. I have no concept of myself as “male” or “female”, “masculine” or “feminine”. I am free to move between all, some, either or neither with no repercussions, no strained loyalties. I will paint my nails just to have them chip when I change the belt on the power sander. I will wear my dad's old air force jacket with my black miniskirt. Sure, I'm still a girl, and I would never deny that – I embrace it fully! Sex equality! But no gender equality. The gender binary's just something we've made up to try to simplify the world, something we should break free of.
In the end, nothing is black and white. Dichotomies are false advertising, subject to change without warning. Things can shift and suddenly nothing fits in the boxes anymore. I'm a vegetarian now – cheeseburgers disgust me. I order veggie wraps in the lunch line, and I always ask for extra pickles.
It started with a Happy Meal.
We pulled up to the McDonald's drive-thru and left the car idling, waiting for the speaker to crackle with the voice of some teenage part-time drone.
“Welcome to McDonald's, what can I get for you?” She spoke with a lilt of disinterest, the sort that grows from minimum wage recitation and repetition.
“Uhhh, yes, can I get a, uh, cheeseburger Happy Meal and--”
“No pickles!” I hissed quietly. In my elementary school world, everything was meant to be in nice categories, separable into clean-cut picture book dichotomies. Cheeseburgers were in the “delicious” category. Pickles were overwhelmingly in the “yuck” category. To attempt to combine these stark opposites in one instance would surely cause a universal breakdown and utter chaos.
“--no pickles on the cheeseburger, and a Coke with that.” Papa concluded.
There are several aspects of Happy Meals that make them far superior to less emotional meals – the box itself, with its bright colors, games, and Golden Arches handles. Any child can tell you, though, the absolute best thing about Happy Meals is that they come with toys. Sometimes 101 Dalmatians, sometimes Tomagotchi, always cheap Chinese plastic – it didn't matter. At least, that's what I thought.
“Is the Happy Meal for a boy or a girl?” the speaker droned.
My father was visibly taken aback by the question and replied sternly, “What does it matter?”
“There's two toys, it depends if they're a boy or a girl which one they get.”
“What's the difference?” Papa was irked. I just wanted my cheeseburger, sans-pickles. Man, did I hate pickles. They were like cucumbers that had their souls stolen by the devil.
“The toy for boys is a Hot Wheels car and the toy for girls is a uh, little Barbie doll.”
“Why can't girls play with Hot Wheels?” he demanded. I can't imagine the drive-thru attendant being anything but jarred by this exchange. This wasn't the conversation she was trained to have! Why did he have to raise such a fuss over something stupid like a Happy Meal toy?
“Is the meal for a boy or a girl?” Papa was very obviously displeased, and he turned around to ask me my opinion.
“Do you want Hot Wheels or a Barbie?” he asked.
“Hot Wheels!” It was a no brainer. You can race Hot Wheels around the inside of the car window and what could Barbie do? Sit around and look pretty. That's boring. The decision was made almost instantly.
“It's for a boy.”
■ ■ ■
It wasn't until taking AP Psychology this year that I ever really thought about the concept of “gender identity”. I mean, all children know who's a “tomboy” and who's a “girly boy”, but that was always supposed to be wrong, to not act in accord with your birth certificate. The truth of the matter is, biological sex is completely separate from gender – your own self-concept of being male or female. The idea that your biology and sense of self could be divergent, yet harmonious and complete, was an utter revolution in the way that I framed myself and my upbringing.
I learned in Psychology that children learn and assimilate into gender roles by observing behaviors and being rewarded for mimicking “the correct ones”. Sally, you're such a good mommy to your dollies – Jimmy, put your sister's tea set down, why don't you go play outside? But looking back on my childhood, these gender-specific models were absent. Mama could rock a dress and use a caulking gun and papa took time off of work to raise his kids and keep the roof repaired. My parents did encourage me to take ballet if I wanted to... as long as I didn't miss my karate lessons. I watched wrestling and HGTV back-to-back and never understood why all the good T-shirts at Kohl's were in the boys' section. I saw nothing wrong with climbing trees in a dress as long as nobody was standing under me. I could never completely fit in with “the guys”, but I never really felt at home with “the girls” either.
Alas, the world works the way I thought it did in elementary school – it necessitates dichotomies. Feminine/masculine exist to parallel delicious/yuck. And we all know what happens when you try to combine such dire opposites – utter chaos.
And chaos, I am finding out, is a pretty sweet deal.
I've taken the liberty of just completely rejecting gender. I have no concept of myself as “male” or “female”, “masculine” or “feminine”. I am free to move between all, some, either or neither with no repercussions, no strained loyalties. I will paint my nails just to have them chip when I change the belt on the power sander. I will wear my dad's old air force jacket with my black miniskirt. Sure, I'm still a girl, and I would never deny that – I embrace it fully! Sex equality! But no gender equality. The gender binary's just something we've made up to try to simplify the world, something we should break free of.
In the end, nothing is black and white. Dichotomies are false advertising, subject to change without warning. Things can shift and suddenly nothing fits in the boxes anymore. I'm a vegetarian now – cheeseburgers disgust me. I order veggie wraps in the lunch line, and I always ask for extra pickles.
Labels: childhood, english class, essay, gender, school
Ianthe. posted at 2:11 PM
Sunday, December 28, 2008
[it's good to know that people grow up with me.]
There's something strangely comforting about Steve Burns' transition from Blue's Clues host to indie rock star. When I was young, I loved Blue's Clues, and Steve's charming disposition and comfortably repetitive wardrobe kept me one happy kid.
I grew out of Blue's Clues (well, that's not entirely true, but I'd like to be able to tell people it is) and into adolescence and my teens, away from sing-a-longs and towards music I related to and enjoyed now that I was older.
And there was Steve, having followed me on this journey. Or perhaps led me. Either way, we'd only diverged for a little bit before we reconvened at Songs For Dustmites.
I grew out of Blue's Clues (well, that's not entirely true, but I'd like to be able to tell people it is) and into adolescence and my teens, away from sing-a-longs and towards music I related to and enjoyed now that I was older.
And there was Steve, having followed me on this journey. Or perhaps led me. Either way, we'd only diverged for a little bit before we reconvened at Songs For Dustmites.
Songs For Dustmites is Steve Burns' debut album. It's space rock à la The Flaming Lips, infused with the ingenuous innocence of Jack Johnson, sprinkled with They Might Be Giants and neatly packaged together in a record clearly intended for grown-ups with a kiss from Joe Frank.
Although Steve has left behind the green striped shirt, a couple of listens to Songs For Dustmites seems to reveal that neither of us have completely abandoned a good sing-a-long.
Though, I did feel a little bit guilty when I saw a picture of him licking his lips seductively. That just felt... dirty.
www.steveswebpage.com
Although Steve has left behind the green striped shirt, a couple of listens to Songs For Dustmites seems to reveal that neither of us have completely abandoned a good sing-a-long.
Though, I did feel a little bit guilty when I saw a picture of him licking his lips seductively. That just felt... dirty.
www.steveswebpage.com
Labels: childhood, indie, music
Ianthe. posted at 3:10 AM