Collage Magic

Making these collages was fun. I have made a few in my day, but I am for sure the most satisfied with the one above. This is because I had to work within limited means and come up with something that I thought was great. Most of the collage's I've made in my past are a random sequence of events with images I liked or people I admired. This time I wanted to find and stick with a theme of some sort. Looking through my home, which I share with two men, all I could rummage up in the way of magazines was girls, girls, and more girls. So, in my mind I formulated a classic theme. Attack of the giant women! After that, things feel nicely into place.

When we were in class, we had the opportunity to take pictures of our collage and play with it on the computer in an attempt to extract an abstract image from the originals. In the second picture above, I messed with the color, shadows and highlights to create this negative looking effect. I liked it a lot because it turns my colorful picture into a dark creepy looking image. You can still define the elements in the picture, but they are distorted enough to elicit a very different feeling. The third picture also turned out great. I cropped the picture and worked with the upper left hand corner, once again playing with colors and using a tool to blur everything together. I really liked the way it looked, because it gives me the feel of an old time movie poster in the way it looks sort of cartoon like now. I was very satisfied with all of these images and how they contrast and complement one another when you see them together.

Hi, I'm Me. And You Are......?

This is my story about me and the unoriginal, but severely important, manifestation of an idea.

Before I was born, my name was determined. My mother had been thinking of names and had a tendency to drift towards T.V. sitcoms for inspiration. Tabatha, Samantha’s daughter on “Bewitched,” was put up for consideration but, thanks to everything holy, my dad was quick to shoot it down. He believed, as I do now, that it was more feline in nature than was preferred. After shopping around a bit more they finally agreed on Bailey Justine McKinney. That is until my grandmother heard it and politely coughed. She could shame a volcano into reversing itself with that cough. I was then Justine Bailey McKinney, in honor of Justine Batemen from the classic “Family Ties” and Bailey from a character on “WKRP in Cincinnati.”

I’ve heard of cultures that revere names like they are the compliment to the soul. To deny your name is to deny yourself. I thought of Rumpelstiltskin even, and the circumstance placed on obtaining his secret name. Protection and pride of this title is expected by many. Pondering these interpretations, I compared my own feelings towards my name to these ideas that names are to be venerated. In comparison, I treat my name like a common whore. I’ve watched it dragged through the proverbial grime and mud on more than one occasion and never lifted a finger to cease the attack. I’ve bore through hundreds of brutal and sometimes insulting mispronunciations without growing cold. I’ve even left it in a back alley, exchanging it for another on a mischievous night of tomfoolery. I dare say that upon meeting one of these people from the aforementioned cultures, things could become quite awkward. To me, my name, which I like by the way, has very little to do with me.

My name has always been a given. It is something that is etched into a jewelry box from my grandmother. It defines me at the D.M.V and correlates with my social security number. It is the sound that is used in reference to me. I remember one night when I was younger, my mother was sitting up with me, attempting to comfort my fears of the storm that wailed and thrashed about outside our home. In my life, organized religion was a semi-presence, but never a theme. Still, at the time I had the basic concept of God, Jesus and all that jazz, and my fear of the tempest conditions outside brought me to think on it a moment. I asked my mom a question. “Why is he called God? Who named him?” She smiled and swept my hair from my face, happy for me to be distracted from the thunder. “Well, I suppose people like you and me named him that so we wouldn’t get confused. It’s just a word for us so we can know who we’re talking about.” I remember these words because they gave me an amazing epiphany when I recalled them with a more able and critical mind. It’s just a noise, this name. A sound of recognition and nothing more. I thought of misunderstandings and wars, fought for different gods without the realization that all of them are intertwined and share so much. Maybe not in name, but in essence. All religions are based on sets of central concepts, but it’s these sounds that create contradiction and with this comes distrust and tragedy. I always hoped to avoid an identity melt down and this concept was central in giving me an amazing sense of self-preservation. A name is but a word used in context. What’s in a name? Absolutely nothing if you ask me.

My journey to self discovery has yet to begin, but I have timidly mapped out my course on the solid foundation that whatever my identity may be, it is not anchored in the words that others call me by. I mean, come on, my mom could have blindfolded herself and pointed to pages in a retro TV Guide. I take great comfort in knowing that whether I’m called Justine, Diana, Marie, or have my name taken from me altogether, I am and always will be the great I am. I am, in every way, Me.

"On the Uses of a Liberal Education"-"As a Weapon in the Hands of the Restless Poor" Part 2 by Earl Shorris

This essay really touched me in an unexpected way. I guess I’m just a sucker for basic human decency. There are so many explanations given for the condition that the poorer community lives in and why the cycle seems to be unbreakable. The most succinct explanation I have heard came from the horses mouth. Viniece Walker. The lack of humanities, of the “moral downtown”, is what this woman suggests is the cause of the poor persons inability to escape their environment. At first the author treats her suggestion as quaint, but upon further reflection begins to understand what she meant. Walker was speaking of the fact that the poorer community is deprived of the arts and a general awareness of humanities. In order to be involved in the politics of society on all levels, basic concepts of humanity that produce critical thinking and insight are essential. Without these skills they are perceived as unrefined and interaction with the greater society is compromised since it is based on these social principles. This made to much sense to be ignored and it was upon this idea The Clemente Course was initiated. Learning about the students in attendance there was inspiring. Just by choosing to make time in their exhausting situations to be in this class that could have ended up having no gain besides knowledge is fantastic. It was a real eye opener to see what this opportunity did for so many of the students, including leading many to a higher quality of existence. It was a fine example of how many people in poverty are truly capable, intelligent and want to be better, and how opportunity can make or break that mind-set. I was amazed and inspired that so much good could come out of this one idea.

"On the Uses of a Liberal Education"- "As Lite Entertainment for Bored College Students" Part 1 by Mark Edmundson

Mark Edmundson has got a point here. While reading this essay I couldn’t help but measure myself against the melancholy description he uses to generalize my generation. I cringed to find laid before me such a painfully accurate description of the group of sedated and seduced young adults that I associate with, and unfortunately, belong to. I appreciated his analysis of the various forces in the world that combine to create an apathetic environment, and then proceeding to fill the internal space with commercial goods. I felt for him when he spoke of the way he was required to relate to his class in pop culture terms in order to elicit any interest. These youths more closely resemble zombies constantly interacting with mechanized devises used to avoid human interaction. Instant gratification is something that has bred like a virus into every corner of our society. Critical thinking and application of imagination and creativity is long and hard. Too hard, it would seem for many people who simply take gratification in hiding from the meaning of existence and just blandly exist. Fear has so much to do with it, as the author pointed out. It is not the young peoples fault that generations before have led us to this precipice of intellectualism. It’s not our fault that the school system has come to pander to our comfort and become enablers to a path of complacent, insipid futures. But it is our fault that we sit back and accept the way of things. We must brush the moths from our coats and plunge head long onto the imposing and difficult road that other great minds have trekked. After reading this essay, I was overwhelmed with the sense of guilt in my part of a unified failure to bring forth and appreciate any true genius. These minds are salvageable to us and we are surely doomed to remain ignorant while we allow these essential contributions to our beings to be shoved aside in favor of momentary commercial delight. I am already an avid reader, but this essay has shifted my literary goals to obtain much more of that excitement he feels towards knowledge and inflame some earnest desire to be even better than I think I might.

"Bygones" Pantoum by Yours Truly

A storm is coming.
Disorienting flashes chase me underground.
Unearthing boxed memories,
They have a stale smell.

Disorienting flashes chase me underground.
Other faces gaze up with smiles,
They have a stale smell.
My face past and present turns away.

Other faces gaze up with smiles.
Ominous roars remind me of my place.
My face past and present turns away.
My self treks paths it had once thought lost.

Ominous roars remind me of my place
Absolving mistakes made in haste.
My self treks paths it had once thought lost.
I know time is failing, amends must be made.

Absolving mistakes made in haste.
Unearthing boxed memories,
I know time is failing, amends must be made.
A storm is coming.

"The Woman Who Lost Her Names" by Nessa Rapoport

This story was more difficult for me to understand seeing as I am nearly completely ignorant on the topic of Judaism. Also, the way that the story unfolded seemed rushed and I never felt myself develop a personal appreciation for the characters or, the plot in general. Fortunately these aspects of the short story were not a complete hindrance in deciphering some meaning from the tale. The focus was on names and the meaning they have in certain contexts. The main character was a woman who began her life as Sarah Josephine, named for her grandmother and uncle. When she reached kindergarten her name was changed to Sally so she wouldn’t stand out amongst her classmates. “The girls in her class had radios, then TVs, then nose jobs and contact lenses. They grew more graceful in their affluence, and she grew a foot taller than all of them, early. There were many blond girls in her class each year, and she’d stare at their fair delicate arms whose hair was almost invisible” (Rapoport, p.2). This says to me that her Jewish ancestry was something uncommon in her school environment and the change of her name was most likely correlated with this desire to mask her heritage, and with that a name is lost and a part of her identity is brought into question.
As she grows older she develops a strong desire to leave America for Israel, presumably because her families strong beliefs have permeated her with a hope to truly belong and what better place than her native land. She marries her first cousin Yakov Halevi who has himself been stripped of one name for another through matters of circumstance. The relationship between these two characters was interesting. At first he seems to be the one who has expectations beyond his tradition. He is a poet and has an innocent, open-minded appreciation of America and his bride. Sarah adores him, enough to stay in America for some time beyond her wishes, as well as once again giving up her name and accepting Yosefah as a replacement.
When the couple finally moves to Jerusalem, the tables seem to turn in the couples viewpoints. Suddenly the husband seems to be the one conforming to cultural and traditional expectations whilst the wife is obviously struggling with her identity in a way. It seemed to me like she began to suffer the ‘grass is always greener syndrome’. The description of her life in this place is far from the fantasies she entertained of this holy land in her mind as a child in America. Even when she gives birth, she is crowded and rushed from her bed in an undignified way that seems harsh compared to U.S. standards. Sarah wants to name the child Ayelet Hashachar, meaning: the dawn star. “Yakov smiled over her, indulgent. ‘This is not a name’ (Rapoport, p.7). Tradition seems to be victorious over ambition in this conclusion. Sarah sought her whole life to fit in and when she ended up where she thought she should be, she continued to defy her environment in her wishes. The ending was a bit unsatisfactory for me in its abruptness.
Overall, the message is one of maintaining an individual nature. Even though Sarah lost her own names and still managed to hang on to pieces herself, she still puts immeasurable stock in the fact that the child’s name she chose could be lost and she will end up repeating a cycle. Names are only words and it is the context in which they are used or given that places meaning upon them. This is the message I took away with me from this story.

"Covered Bridges" by Barbara Kingsolver

This short story by Barbara Kingsolver was one that I enjoyed. It’s premise is simple but surprisingly emotionally complex, following a wife and husband as they ponder their place in the procreation cycle. I am not someone who desires or rejects the idea of children at some point in time and I felt like I could relate to this fictitious couple in their hesitations to bring life into this world.
The author provides witty dialog, like considering whether or not dogs can be retarded, and has a very fluid way of describing the surroundings of the countryside and the natural elements, like the produce, that make up the scene of the festival. “Against the backdrop of harvested fields and roadside tangles of poison ivy and goldenrod, tables were piled high with local produce: handwoven baskets and corn-husk dolls, clear jars of clover honey, giant pyramids of pumpkins” (Kingsolver, p.5). I liked the alliteration in that passage and all this description makes you feel comfortable in this small town setting. I felt a vibe within the writing as they explore around the bridge and as he speaks of his gardening that, just as the character mentions, reflects those such as Thoreau, and to me Emerson, who took great personal meaning as well as spiritual stock from their surroundings. "...All natural objects make a kindred impression, when the mind is open to their influence. Nature never wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest man extort her secret, and lose his curiosity by finding out all her perfection. Nature never became a toy to a wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the mountains, reflected the wisdom of his best hour, as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood" (Nature, Emerson).
“Covered Bridges” was also relishable because its storyline abruptly threw me off, from being content with the situation to being caught off guard by a sudden happening. “Then she stood up suddenly, gazed at me with a look of intent misery, and spat out something that twitched on the grass. Ursula and I both leaned forward to look. It was a hornet” (Kingsolver p.9). My heart skipped a beat with the sudden transition of a happy picnic into a life and death situation. The author set me up to experience a frequent occurrence in reality, commonly known as having the rug pulled out from underneath you. I appreciated this aspect of the text more than anything. A real point was conveyed by the author through the entire plot concerning the decisions one makes for ones future in life and the reality of the unpredictability that inevitably just screws those plans. When Lena was appreciating the wonder of a caterpillar and making wishes, the situation of her existence and the beauty around her seemed pure and sound. Shortly after this happy moment however, an encounter with winged chance brought about a perception that took into stock the reality of her mortality. This reality took precedence over the societal and intuition based expectations of having a child.
Kingsolver has woven a story that entertains two aspects of the world that can be individually and personally felt, invoking a thoughtful reflection on your own universe and what you choose to fill it with. I appreciated this story and its charm.