College Vibes

Okay, so finally something is actually happening in my life... YAY!! I know, I know, you must try and curb your enthusiasm, my friends.

I started college for real this week. And by for real I mean I'm not counting the year of college that is a preparation for the real course of study. That year sucks. It's uneventful, boring, you still have subjects that have nothing to do with your choice of career (History, to my parent's dismay and my borther's amusement) and everyone treats you like you are in some kind of weird limbo between High School and College.

My College is an hour away from my home. It's ratty and pathetic-looking, with so many ripped posters of lefty propaganda over the walls you cannot tell the colour of them at all. The walls that are not covered up with the faces of "Che" Guevara, Mao and a horned version of Bush (with or without fake mustache and goatee, deppending on the frame of mind of some lazy, forty-year-old college student) are peeled and scratched and spray-painted all over. It's Public University and before anyone not belonging to South America starts frowning and whispering "Community College white trash" let me set the record straight: In Argentina as well as the rest of Latin America Public University is actually really good. and the UBA (my University) is counted as the best in Latin America. People put up with crappy salaries, horrible teaching conditions, cramped classrooms and bad cofee on the Teacher's Lounge just to teach a course there, 'cause of the prestige. Scholars salivate over the openings in classes, and every foreigner intellectual celebrity passing through wants to either attend a class or give it. If not, they'll settle for a seminar.

Public University here is a god among men. It is viewed most of the times as the best choice, and has particualr fame and prestige in History (the program is damn good, the teachers awesome and the library to die for). But the building is crappy. Inside it's full of tables selling either books or left-wing ideology (they try with me, but like I always say... the joke's on you, suckers!). One has to deal with having no seat in a class five minutes before it starts, bad heating (except in summer when it's overheat and everyone feels like a chicken spinning round and round)

And, most of it all, Public University doesn't like you. You are a thorn on its side since you don't pay for anything (except the reading material for each class) and therefore all you do is spend the money of the University's tight and diminishing budget. Therefore the system is designed to do everything in it's power to kick you out. Few ever graduate from the UBA. It makes your life a living hell. That well-oiled Bureocratic Killing Machine will find a thousand and one reasons to flunk you or leave you out. You have to pay attention to the signs on the walls to see if there is some new paperwork to present, or a thing to check, correct, redo, present, legalize and whatnot. It gets you jumping through so many hoops you cannot keep track. And suddenly you realize you missed the deadline for an inscritpion to a thing you didn't even know you had to go to or you passed an important internal election, which is illegal and therefore can get you kicked out.

I love it nevertheless. And I'm gonna keep fighting it till I graduate so I can say I did not only get a degree on History, I also survived Public University. And the prestige it gives you... It's a whole new story.

Black Is NOT The New Pink

People claim to be over the whole "Barbie-Doll", America's Sweetheart, bubblegum.pink Graduation Princess stereotype. You know, the whole female repressentation of the ninties, with star figures like Britney Spears, Melissa Joan Heart (a teenage witch, OMG!!!!) and Jessica Simpson (Who E! painted as a girl whose delayed hit in popularity was due to her firm belief in herself and her reluctance to sell her body in the form of a "Seaxy and Innocent" and then "Downright Naughty" series of images that pop stars like the mentioned Brittney and Christina Aguilera went for, and then goes and gives General Lee a much needed bath... With her boobs... In a bikini). We are to believe nowadays that the punk is back, darlin', and that the bad girls wear leather bracelets, black cargo pants and loose ties. The new Courtney Loves, ladies and gentlemen! The new millenium is all about the Goth and the Punk and black, black, black!!! We know revere Good Charlotte, My Chemical Romance and the eyeliner is for both girls and boys. All we have to do to grow up is use spikes and dye our hair.

Don't get me wrong. I did dye my hair red, and I use too much eyeliner. My favourite XMas move is Tim Burton's nightmare before Christmas, I do listen to GC and MCR and think that Danny Elfman should be involved in every movie's soundtrack. I hold Johnny Depp up high with the greats, and I do dress in black and wear leather in my arms and neck. But, unlike the rest of the young adult world, I do it because I like it, and it goes in character with the rest of my life. I listen to Nessum Dorma, Lacrimosa, Evanescence, Nightwish, something Corporate, some Operas and Classic. I read Gothic Novels, as well as classics and some romances (I'm a chick, deal with it!). I'm pessimistic, I like the colour black, have a thing for baroque paintings and wished I could decorate my room with them. But it's what I don't do that better defines me with respect to the people I want to call out today: I don't secretly watch Kelly Clarkson, go nuts over Clay Aiken, watch Lindsay Lohan or Hilary Duff and think that Lana Lang is the most perfect female role model in the world. Not even when she switched from her sickening love for pink (Could she be any pinkier in Season 1, 2 and 3???) to her "new matured persona" in black. Black is NOT the new Pink.

This is what's wrong with the World. Avril Lavigne saying she is Punk, not Pop. That she can play the guitar (Never seen her play that thing, just smash it around...) and wears ties and black boots because she is not Preppy, or Poppy... Have you actually heard your songs baby? I guess not, because they sure scream of Pop. I think that sometimes I can hear The Hansons "Beebopping" in the background, or Justin 'crying a river'. Spooky.

Don't get me wrong again. I have nothing against pop, if you like it you should listen to it. I sometimes do, but I'm aware it's Pop. I don't dellude myself into thinking that because the singers have extra mascara and are blending in with the black backgorund of the stage they are not singing Pop. The Nineties hit is the New Millenium's guilty pleassure! We are all mature and 'over it', and we put black clothes or mature themes over it and call it whatever we can come up with: Rock, Goth, Punk... Think again.

I'm against people who want to pretend to be something when they are singing and listening to something different. I'm sick of Hilary Duff trying to dress punky to desguise her bubblegum pink lyrics. Of Ashley Simpson dying her hair and screaming "She's not Jessica". Let it be, fellows. General audience, be proud of who you are, don't think it deminishes you in any way. In the 90's I had to struggle to be what I wanted to be without caring for judgement, and now everybody is like me, and yet they aren't. I'm against posers, but I get that they want to be accepted, and now dark is in, and fairy-princesses are kinda out (thank the Lord...). Don't try to desguise it, because black is starting to look grey. You are ruining it for the people who really feel it.

I didn't ruin Pop, don't screw up Dark. Black is not the new Pink, deal with it. And no, Paris, this isn't Hot.

Empire Of Fantasies

I always used to rant at people in general for turning History into either a gold-spun tale of Happy ever After or Tragic Plays were courage abound, good is white, evil is black and heroic acts are performed by selfless men (who manage to show a six pack devoid of shirt at one point because, apparently, increases their level of heroism... One learns something new every day, huh?) who have the welfare of their loved ones/their community/The world/the galaxy/The known universe at heart. We all saw how in comics Captain Amercia fought those evil Natzis, how in Band of Brothers they would all jump eagerly at the chance of a horribly heroic, and most of the time quite gruesome, death. We witnessed Shcindler's List and wept our litte hearts out, we were appaled upon the italian's treatment of Bonny Russel Crowe in his tight, leather Gladiator armour, we watched Rescuing Private Ryan and wanted nothing more than to have our siblings be killed in a war so that we could be rescued by Tom Hanks in a uniform... So far I've alowed it, because sometimes history is not as clear as one could hope for and there is room for... Ehem... Artistic Licenses.

That is why, silly me, I sat down to watch ABC's "Empire" (here Hallmark Channel is in charge of airing it, but anyway) thinking that it would be something as epic as Rome, which I had watched after THC (The History channle, my friend and addiction) explained all the thought and research that had lead into the making of the series and how they had taken little artistic licenses, which they clarified by the way, to have some characters at one point when historical records suggested otherwise. After the first five minutes of watching Empire I started swearing, and hooting alone in my room. I couldn't believe how much they had distorted the truth and manipulated facts so they could turn conniving-little-bastard Octavius of the House of Julius (personally I have nothing against him, he was a true Roman of his time, but seeing the "Clark Kent" version of him made me turn against him faster than a speeding bullet). Brutus was being demonized, Caesar was glorified and Mark Anthony was stripped of anything ressembling morals. Because, you see... Bad men have no morals. Bad men are evil, and have no duplicity or deapth of character whatsoever. Good guys are also that... Good. No ambitions, no temptations (except the ones they overpower on camera with the force of truth and courage and whatnot), not a drop of, dare I say, egotism. No personal interests, the people come first. Family comes first. Random passerby comes first. Little fluffy animals come first.

And then they add a little inner conflict and a death and they make us believe they have innerstruggles and duplicity. Uh-huh... Sure. Maybe if I had been high on every drug known to man I would have swallowed that one. And I'm Just saying Maybe, the kind that is not-so-probable or nearly-impossible. They don't do politics or are cunning at all, because that is a sign of corruption. they are just plain old honest and show how truth sorts everything out for them at the end. They count with loyal followers and the power of what is right... And you know, nothing can be stronger than that. It makes sense that two men and a handful of women could overpower the entire Roman Senate and other conspirators but doing only good. Right.

No mention of Octavius knowing about the assasination attempt and, though not really involved, clarified to the conspirators that he would do nothing to stop it. No saying that Berutus was probably the son of Caesar and loved him as a father and was faithful to him to no end and really did believe that the Republic was being threteaned by the figure of the Caesar. No telling how Octavius, who is all about the Republic this and the Republic that, in the end winds up being one of the longest-lived and firmy-stablished Emperors of Rome, toying with his family and letting his rather amoral wife Livia run the whole show. Nah-huh... Why say it at all. It's all ugly business. People are too stupid to understand that good and evil are mostly vague terms that do not really apply most of the time. Better make it simple. Follow the formula and nothing can go wrong... Right???

Well, it went wrong for me. I liked the actors (expect Octavius 'Call me Clark' of the House of Julius) and I particulary liked Brutus who tried hard to emphasize he was not a bad guy in a cowboy's movie. And I even began to match him with Vespal Virgin Camena because I could not focus on the real story for fear of throwing up. I liked the setting, the costumes (a little too clean for me, but what the hell...), the settings and the occassional well-placed line of dialogue. But it's an original story based vaguely (very vaguely) on certain pre-selected facts. They should clarify that, in no way, this miniseries comes even a little close to the truth. If not people, like yours truly, get nasty surprises.

Well, that's about it. I want to make it short because then I'm off to dream of Brutus and the possibilities behind the Toga. What can I say? Men wrapped in sheets and kilts just do it for me. Thank you very much for that one ABC. Best thing you ever did for the Empire.

The Ranting

It comes when you least expect it and at the worst possible moment. It might be when someone you know and never liked ask you whet have you how your love life is doing right after she introduces you to her underwear model/witty entrepeneur of a boyfriend, and you know all you have been dating lately are loosers anmd that your friday and saturday nights are filled with Poe, French study and the History Channel. It comes when you doze off at a class and the teacher asks a simple uestion you believe it to be asked in another language altogether. It comes when a cute guy you have been eyeing asks you politely if you know that you have a bit of lipstick in your teeth, trying to be helpful (as if...).

You open your mouth, knowing that only your wit and sharp intelligence can grant you a smooth and victorious exit from this connundrum and then you feel it coming, so swift and powerful you cannot close your mouth quickly enough. Before you know it your lips are moving and it's happening and you are powerless to do anything but hear yourself, and beat yourself up over it...

You are ranting, so incoherent and mumbling and painful that you wince internally and shake your head mentally. You want to scream, you want to make it stop, you want to tell everybody that it was not planned that that isn't you. That you are coherent and sharp and articulate, and that you think things over before blurting everything out.

Ranting, rambling, whatever it is is ruining you ate the moment so you have to resort to you hated enemy 'pathetic fleeing excuse' to bail you out for the night. And when you are sure you are alone you find a hard surface and bang you head against it, knowing that no matter how much you vow never to do that again you will, and probably before you realize it.

And then you wonder what good Debate did on High School and realize that on top of it all you spent three extra hours at school on friday afternoons during your Senior year for nothing. Nice feeling, Huh?

Warm and fuzzy, just like nausea.

She Cut your Hair

Someone said once that people idealize their unrequitted crushes precisely because they never happened, so one can imagine a world of possible scenarios, all to please one's unsatisfied needs. That the people we fall in love with are most of the time our fantasies about how the real person is, but never real.

Someone said once that family is the most important thing of all, so why is it that all families have more skeletons in the closets than corpses in the cementery? Why is it that families feud, and why did someone have to write Romeo and Juliet, or why is it that the first thing we are aware of is Sibling Rivalry? Why is it that we stop caring, down that path, whether familiesd stick together or fll apart?

Someone said once that without ideals you are nothing. But this is the generations with no Ideals, no battles to win, nothing to care about. No Vietnam, no French May, no Flower Power or Black Pride. This is the generation of bummers and yuppies, Internet and cellphones. This is the generations that communicates the most and says nothing.

Mmmmhhh... I do see a patern. Excuse me, I have to go punch Someone in the stomach. He talks too much.

Daddy Tell Me Once Again...

There is a song written in Spanish by a man named Ismael Serrano that talks about times passed, the 50's, the 60's and the 70's. It basically tells the story of a little boy who asks his father to tell him that story agin, the story of military men, fascits and students with bangs. Of urban guerilla with bell-bottom jeans, and songs of the Rolling, and girls in Miniskirts. He then goes on to ask him to tell him the story of how much fun he had ruining the old age to rusty dictators, and how he occupied the Sorbonne, in tht French May, in the days of wine and roses.

Finally the little boy asks his father to tell him one nicer story, the one about the "crazy guerrillero" who got killed in Bolivia and how nobody dared use his gun angain, and how sindce that day everything seems uglier.

From tht point on the son becomes his father's critic, pointing out that, after all those barricades, after all those raised fists and all the bloodshed, at the end of the game he couldn't do anything. And that the defeat was harsh, and everything everyone dreamed of rotted on the corners, there are no more crazy people, no more parias, but it's all still dirty.

He goes on to regret, stating that the French May is far away, as well as Saint Denis, Jean Paul Sartre and that old Paris and nevertheless he sometimes thiniks that it was all the same. Punishments keeps falling on those people who talk too much. And the same dead people rotten with cruelty remain, but now the ones that died in Vietnam die in Bosnia.

I first heard this song four years ago, I think, and I didn't underwstrand half of it. It seemed impossible fore the world to be like that in the song only decades ago, and for my parents to have been born, and have killed, one of the most idealistic generation there has ever been. I couldn't help but ask what happened. What happened to them??? And to US? How come the children of the French May gave birth to the Generation of No Ideals? How come they lost it? Was it us, was it them? Was it both? Is it tht they failed to pass the torch or that we didn't know what to do with it so we put it out?

Was it all in vain, as he says?

The Major Lift

I know it's been a while. I know I made promises that apparently I never kept, and said things that seem lies now. But in thsese months I've regrouped, I've looked inside and seen that there were remains of what once was in me, and dedicated much time to healthy rebuilding, reading and listening to music in search for the inspiration, which finally came and now I'm holding onto it for dear life.

The Minor Fall is behind me, and the days of the Major Lift spread out before me and lose themselves in the line of the horizon. They are not pretty most of the time: pages torn, lots of researching, lots of gathering concepts, words and even letters at a time, but I've never felt happier before. Because when I do find a piece of the puzzle, however small, it's like golden light and fuzzy feeling inside.

I feel free, and not tied down by what it is my blessing and my horrible curse. Not the gift of writing but the gift of wanting to write, which is an entirely different thing. But once I realy get started, once that horribly first words and then sentence is over sometimes it's a downpur and sometimes it's a dry struggle, but what comes out of it is water all the same: necessary for ordinary life.

So I cut my hair and dyed it red. So I took that extra step I had always been afraid to, I took a plunge and fell down the Escher Stairs. And though there was no heroic ending or crystal- encased set of dreams in the end - my poor and forever defining reference to The Labyrinth - it was worth every single sacrifice. i faced my demons, and it turned out their shadows were a lot bigger projected against the walls than the things themselves.

So I'll be back talking about daily nothing. Just writing. Not good, not bad, just there. I think that for me it's the best kind of writing there is. I'll clean up this mess, maybe learn a bit of HTML programming, who knows. And I'll retake French on my own again. Somehow it feels better putting it down on 'paper', so to speak.

Yeah, it does feel better...