Ha.
Just...ha.
I was scoping through the blogosphere tonight, as I'm apt to do while bored and awake far too late, when I stumbled upon a conservative blog with the title Absolute Truths. Now, I'm not going to lie; I didn't really read anything beyond that. I've read a few of his articles before without being drawn to the title of the blog, and while I disagree with a good portion of what he says, he seems like a decent writer and someone who puts thought into what he says. I won't post the blog, because I'm really not trying to attack his views in this post.
Or maybe I am.
Mostly, the title bothers me.
Absolute Truths? Perhaps it's just the sociologist in me that's cringing right now. Perhaps it's the liberal. But I hate that term. I especially hate the presumptuous intention that it seems to be used under.
I take it as an intrinsic fact, both in my life and the lives of others, that there are no Absolute Truths. I'm sure there are plenty of people who'd roll their eyes at that. It seems muddy, it seems noncommittal. But I can't think of a single better way to deal with life. It's not an easy creed to live up to; it's far easier to see people living differently than you do, thinking differently than you do, and judging them based on some truth, or face of life that they just don't seem to know. It's harder to admit that you simply just don't know there truth, and that they don't know yours.
I can understand the problem that a view life this might incite. If we don't have Absolute Truths, how can we ever agree on what's right and what's wrong? How can we find a way to run our lives, and our society, and our world, if we don't have some overarching moral guideline to follow? Well, simply, we can't. Again, I'll cite the sociologist in me: societies chance in the manner that works best for that society. That society might be the whole of the USA, or Africa, or China. That society might be your small group of friends. All have their own dynamics that keep them going, and evolve and change when it stops working, when it requires change. All of life is as simple and as complicated as that. That's not to say we shouldn't strive to keep working on society, that we shouldn't find things that can and should be fixed, and support things that work.
Trying to place your trust in Absolute Truths though is the opposite of growth. There's no way all people, or even a particular group of people, are always going to by into the same things at the same time. Trying to tout an absolute on any situation is just foolish, and lacking an understanding of human nature. Perhaps God's word is Absolute, perhaps Buddha's is. But there will never be away to make all people buy into it, let alone practice it. Absolutes destroy the fabric that holds society together. Absolutes push us away from the progress we could be making.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Sunday, March 2, 2014
My first memories...
A routine check up at the family doctor. I bent over and touched my toes, as he ran his fingers along my spine. Something wasn't right. I was really young to start developing scoliosis and my parents should take me to get it looked at further.
The Ronald McDonald house, before we checked into the hospital. I had a lot of fun there, actually. A family down the hallway bought me a cassette tape player so that I could play the Reba McIntyre tape that my neighbors had gotten me before we left. Their son was five years older than me, and didn't have any hair. My dad bought me a necklace right before we left, one of those with the little clay animals that all the kids had when I was younger. It was an elephant, and by the time I'd left the hospital its ears and trunk had fallen off.
The waiting room before surgery. The nurse came in, she was young and pretty and smiled the whole time. She had a stack of Disney movies and asked me what I'd like to watch before I went in. I chose Aladdin. My mom and dad came in a kissed me, my dad doing a lot better job of holding the tears back. And then I was sleeping...
I woke up to blurry doctors and blurry parents. The tumor was gone, they told me; not removed, just gone. My parents were thrilled. I was groggy. Reality set in when the nurses lifted me from my surgery bed and my body lit on fire. My parents held my hand and told me how proud they were and how well I'd done, smiling with red and puffy eyes. I didn't smile back.
And I kept not smiling for weeks. My dad stayed every night with me, sleeping in a chair at night, spending the days reading and singing and trying to bring me back. But he was the one who let them hurt me. He was the one who kept letting them poke me and move me around. One day a nurse came in and I said something mean to her. I can't remember the words, but something vicious, something to get her to leave me alone. When she left my dad pulled his chair to my bedside and looked me in the eyes. "I know you hurt and you're angry, and its not fair. But you do not get to treat people like that. She's only trying to help you."
My dad borrowed some colored markers and stole a stack of paper cups. He spent the afternoon making a collection of puppets, and after dinner he knelt by the side of my bed and put on a show. Finally, I laughed.
The doctors had said I wouldn't walk again for at least a year, but as soon as my back started healing my dad got me up and moving. The first time my feet touched the ground they felt rounded. I teetered back and forth like I was standing on spinning tops. Before we'd left, I'd just started riding a bike, and now my feet felt like foriegn objects. I spent every day wandering the halls of the hospital, one hand gripping the rail along the wall, the other holding my dad, listening to the sound of the other children crying in their rooms.
I was on my way home in six months.
I can't guarentee the complete accuracy of these memories, I was barely five after all. But ultimately, the memories were probably more formative than the reality.
The Ronald McDonald house, before we checked into the hospital. I had a lot of fun there, actually. A family down the hallway bought me a cassette tape player so that I could play the Reba McIntyre tape that my neighbors had gotten me before we left. Their son was five years older than me, and didn't have any hair. My dad bought me a necklace right before we left, one of those with the little clay animals that all the kids had when I was younger. It was an elephant, and by the time I'd left the hospital its ears and trunk had fallen off.
The waiting room before surgery. The nurse came in, she was young and pretty and smiled the whole time. She had a stack of Disney movies and asked me what I'd like to watch before I went in. I chose Aladdin. My mom and dad came in a kissed me, my dad doing a lot better job of holding the tears back. And then I was sleeping...
I woke up to blurry doctors and blurry parents. The tumor was gone, they told me; not removed, just gone. My parents were thrilled. I was groggy. Reality set in when the nurses lifted me from my surgery bed and my body lit on fire. My parents held my hand and told me how proud they were and how well I'd done, smiling with red and puffy eyes. I didn't smile back.
And I kept not smiling for weeks. My dad stayed every night with me, sleeping in a chair at night, spending the days reading and singing and trying to bring me back. But he was the one who let them hurt me. He was the one who kept letting them poke me and move me around. One day a nurse came in and I said something mean to her. I can't remember the words, but something vicious, something to get her to leave me alone. When she left my dad pulled his chair to my bedside and looked me in the eyes. "I know you hurt and you're angry, and its not fair. But you do not get to treat people like that. She's only trying to help you."
My dad borrowed some colored markers and stole a stack of paper cups. He spent the afternoon making a collection of puppets, and after dinner he knelt by the side of my bed and put on a show. Finally, I laughed.
The doctors had said I wouldn't walk again for at least a year, but as soon as my back started healing my dad got me up and moving. The first time my feet touched the ground they felt rounded. I teetered back and forth like I was standing on spinning tops. Before we'd left, I'd just started riding a bike, and now my feet felt like foriegn objects. I spent every day wandering the halls of the hospital, one hand gripping the rail along the wall, the other holding my dad, listening to the sound of the other children crying in their rooms.
I was on my way home in six months.
I can't guarentee the complete accuracy of these memories, I was barely five after all. But ultimately, the memories were probably more formative than the reality.
The Doxxing of Cynthia Gockley
Though I'm quite new to this whole blogging thing, I've been following along with several of the prominent manosphere and feminist blogs for some time. These topics have fascinated me for awhile, partly as a train-wreck-can't-look-away kind of thing, but also because gender issues are something that I've been thinking a lot about. They're a confusing, controversial topic to discuss, even now, and even though the manosphere is basically just a glorified hate group, at least they give me something to argue against to solidify my own views.
But the doxxing thing is just disgusting. Pure and simple.
And it proves their status as just a hate group, a group who's main concern is trying to play the devil's advocate, either to get attention in the only way that they're able, or as some kind of vengeance for their perceived disenfranchisement. If they were a legitimate political movement, not only would they, well, be doing something, but their main points would be able to stand on their own without them needing to tear down feminists for daring to question them.
Case in point, Cynthia Gockley, one of my favorite bloggers who routinely questioned the MRA's and manospherians, and in turn got her name and personal details posted on the internet. I won't link to the article, or even give the blogger credit for doing it, but it's not hard to find if you're interested. This blogger claimed that her following his blog and twitter and commenting on the things he posted made her a crazed stalker and dangerous psychopath. Never mind the fact that he was the one who purposely put his controversial opinions out into the public sphere, knowing he would piss people off and get attention for the things he said. You can tell he took much pleasure in writing his post, twisting the personal details she'd written about herself and trying hard to make it look like she was the sick one. Reading it, I can just imagine him chuckling behind his computer, thinking himself some sort of evil genius.
But his little plan just isn't going to work. See, the manospehere has this idea that they can destroy feminists by doing just this, by doxxing them, and then future employers and friends and relatives will Google their name and think less of them. But really, all it takes is a couple clicks to his other articles to realize just who it is that's making these claims, and that perhaps he isn't exactly the best judge of someone's character. Also, there are plenty of people like me out there to defend her reputation and post truthful things.
But better yet, go to her blog and judge for yourself: http://rooshnme.blogspot.com
But the doxxing thing is just disgusting. Pure and simple.
And it proves their status as just a hate group, a group who's main concern is trying to play the devil's advocate, either to get attention in the only way that they're able, or as some kind of vengeance for their perceived disenfranchisement. If they were a legitimate political movement, not only would they, well, be doing something, but their main points would be able to stand on their own without them needing to tear down feminists for daring to question them.
Case in point, Cynthia Gockley, one of my favorite bloggers who routinely questioned the MRA's and manospherians, and in turn got her name and personal details posted on the internet. I won't link to the article, or even give the blogger credit for doing it, but it's not hard to find if you're interested. This blogger claimed that her following his blog and twitter and commenting on the things he posted made her a crazed stalker and dangerous psychopath. Never mind the fact that he was the one who purposely put his controversial opinions out into the public sphere, knowing he would piss people off and get attention for the things he said. You can tell he took much pleasure in writing his post, twisting the personal details she'd written about herself and trying hard to make it look like she was the sick one. Reading it, I can just imagine him chuckling behind his computer, thinking himself some sort of evil genius.
But his little plan just isn't going to work. See, the manospehere has this idea that they can destroy feminists by doing just this, by doxxing them, and then future employers and friends and relatives will Google their name and think less of them. But really, all it takes is a couple clicks to his other articles to realize just who it is that's making these claims, and that perhaps he isn't exactly the best judge of someone's character. Also, there are plenty of people like me out there to defend her reputation and post truthful things.
But better yet, go to her blog and judge for yourself: http://rooshnme.blogspot.com
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
"I'm just trying to find myself..."
Or, "I'm just becoming who I am." I hear things like that from people my age all the time, whether in real life, or in television, on the internet. Everywhere. It's used as a reason for all kinds of things, from pursuing education or studying abroad, or sleeping around and binge drinking. I'm all for people living life the way that they want to, but something about that phrase has always irked me. Maybe I'm being picky in my distaste for it, but every time I hear it I want to ask:
"Well, how do you know when you're yourself finally?"
To me this phrase implies that eventually, somehow, they'll have this sudden 'ah-ha!' moment where everything comes together and their life just...works. They are who they are, they've discovered what they want, achieved it, and suddenly they're just this complete person all of the sudden. But how do you realize when you've achieved that finally? What do you do afterwards, after you've finally found you're identity?
It implies that there's an end game in mind, when that just isn't how life works. Even when we have our careers, or found our passions, or met a wonderful person who we intend to spend the rest of our lives with, the world still carries on. We just find new struggles, new obstacles. Is life supposed to be easy once we've found this mythical version of ourselves.
And I don't know about anyone else, but I have those little 'ah-ha!' moments all of the time, these beautiful little moments where it seems like everything just fits together. I can see where I've been, and where I am, and the progression of my life that's lead me to where I am. Those moments are great, but even once you have them you keep pushing on. You find new experiences that help refine your sense of self, or challenge it in a way that it's never been challenged before. You keep moving.
What are you trying to find about yourself that you aren't experiencing every day of your life?
By all means, keep trucking forward, keep trying new things. Meet new people, make mistakes, learn from them. But don't let 'finding yourself' be an excuse for repeating bad decisions, don't think that one day everything will come together and suddenly your life as 'yourself' will began.
How about we focus on refining ourselves instead?
"Well, how do you know when you're yourself finally?"
To me this phrase implies that eventually, somehow, they'll have this sudden 'ah-ha!' moment where everything comes together and their life just...works. They are who they are, they've discovered what they want, achieved it, and suddenly they're just this complete person all of the sudden. But how do you realize when you've achieved that finally? What do you do afterwards, after you've finally found you're identity?
It implies that there's an end game in mind, when that just isn't how life works. Even when we have our careers, or found our passions, or met a wonderful person who we intend to spend the rest of our lives with, the world still carries on. We just find new struggles, new obstacles. Is life supposed to be easy once we've found this mythical version of ourselves.
And I don't know about anyone else, but I have those little 'ah-ha!' moments all of the time, these beautiful little moments where it seems like everything just fits together. I can see where I've been, and where I am, and the progression of my life that's lead me to where I am. Those moments are great, but even once you have them you keep pushing on. You find new experiences that help refine your sense of self, or challenge it in a way that it's never been challenged before. You keep moving.
What are you trying to find about yourself that you aren't experiencing every day of your life?
By all means, keep trucking forward, keep trying new things. Meet new people, make mistakes, learn from them. But don't let 'finding yourself' be an excuse for repeating bad decisions, don't think that one day everything will come together and suddenly your life as 'yourself' will began.
How about we focus on refining ourselves instead?
Some Space To Think
That's the name of this blog, and it's purpose. It's as simple and complicated as that.
So who am I? Well, I'm going by Vivian Leila. I'm twenty-two, a full time college student and a part time server and bartender. I like to read, write, overthink, and I enjoy a nice strong drink every so often.
I'm not sure exactly what I'm intending this blog to be, other then an exercise in self-indulgence. I've always been weary of blogging actually, for that same reason; it's always struck me as self-indulgent. Who really cares to hear all my little thoughts on the universe?
Well, I suppose I do.
Mostly I'm tired of driving everyone I know crazy with my overthinking and philosophizing, but I need to get it out of my head somehow. So here I am, blogosphere. I appreciate all comments, all discussion, all challenges. Let's get to know each other, shall we?
So who am I? Well, I'm going by Vivian Leila. I'm twenty-two, a full time college student and a part time server and bartender. I like to read, write, overthink, and I enjoy a nice strong drink every so often.
I'm not sure exactly what I'm intending this blog to be, other then an exercise in self-indulgence. I've always been weary of blogging actually, for that same reason; it's always struck me as self-indulgent. Who really cares to hear all my little thoughts on the universe?
Well, I suppose I do.
Mostly I'm tired of driving everyone I know crazy with my overthinking and philosophizing, but I need to get it out of my head somehow. So here I am, blogosphere. I appreciate all comments, all discussion, all challenges. Let's get to know each other, shall we?
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