Girls Are Not Toys

Today in class we watched a presentation by Jean Kilbourne called Killing Us Softly. All about naked girls, used and abused by boys, with no greater dream than flawless bones and perfect skin -- presented to the world in advertisements.

Admitted, some of those ads were crazy. I don't remember ever seeing an ad that showed pretty dead girls before, but it makes me wonder. Because apparently, such ideas do exist and somehow appeal to the general, needy public.

There's a constant theme of gender roles. Men are strong, overwhelmingly powerful, violent, far from sensitive. Women are soft, painfully thin, tender and sensual, head down, mouth shut. Both genders are only given "ideal" bodies.

Put the two together, and the only earth-shattering idea advertisers can come up with is sex. Apparently even when there aren't even people involved. (the tabasco sauce and the potato..?) Now that's thinking outside the box.

Come on, people. Put your clothes on, eat some cake, and actually show what you're trying to sell!

Playing Cards

In I Am the Messenger, by Markus Zusak, Ed is confronted by four Aces, four suits, each with its own challenges. He becomes the messenger with a beautiful purpose, to care and help people. But really, he himself is the message.

Diamonds. Protect the diamonds.

Diamonds are both pretty and sharp, belonging to a red underappreciated suit. A fitting place to start. And once Ed begins, there's no way he can stop. Not after those brutal sharp edges.

Clubs. Survive the clubs.

Dark and strangely shaped, this is a difficult suit to conquer. Ed learns to have faith, even as he struggles. Even when he's beaten into the face of clubs.

Spades. Dig deep through the spades.

Another dark suit, simple and yet so severe. At first, it would seem that Ed must dig deep to uncover clues and proceed with his purpose. But the spades really dig deep into Ed himself.

Hearts. Feel the hearts.

The very symbol of life, of love, the bloodred suit pounds in Ed's ears, overwhelming him. The hearts hit home, pushing him to his limits. The hardest people to help are the people closest to him.

My Own Wings

"If you were an angel, would you watch me?"

This was my question, posed to a very close friend of mine. Someone I love with as much of my heart as I can give, and someone I appreciate even the most mundane words from, and someone I want to protect.

The desire to hold onto her friendship runs deep in my bones, despite the miles between us; I've known this girl for so very long... This is the part of friendship that I crave the most. Small talk doesn't become me, I'm far too eager for meaningful words. Oh my, the weather's quite dreadful today, but I'd rather talk to you about how the rain makes me feel so real down to the very core of my being.

I am currently reading I Am the Messenger, and I often wonder how Ed Kennedy can connect to these strangers so easily. How he can push himself to the limits of his own sanity to protect another person... It amazes me, because I move through relationships with other people in stages--even if I'd rather skip to the end.

I don't know a way to skip to the intense bond of a close, understanding friendship.

I want to speak with you in nonsensical riddles, our very own language of inside jokes. I want to loop my arm through yours and lean on your shoulder, just because these are all things I cannot do with a stranger.

I wonder if other people ever feel this way. If people ever crave guardian angels from their friendships, too. Maybe I'm just strange, but I want my own wings someday.

I want that strength, that warm connection to another person, that ability to watch over and protect someone else.

300 Love Letters

So recently, I stumbled upon an intriguing, artistic website. Literally. Ever heard of "StumbleUpon.com"? The rather self-explanatory site has helped me to find myself on interesting websites that I never would have explored on my own.

The artsy site is based on her project, 300 Love Letters. She made the decision to write letters to everyone. And I mean everyone. Strangers that caught her attention, friends, lovers, herself, or just a message to people in general. It's amazing.

Why doesn't anyone write letters anymore? We've gotten very lazy. Sometimes, we think it takes too much energy to text in full words, not to mention sentences.

I'm only 17, and I'm already the kind of person who says "You know, back in the day..." But I'm afraid of being an old soul. Old souls are wiser, stronger, more poetic than me.

I wonder if Marjane ever got a letter. Did she ever write one? Would she ever have felt the need? But I think a letter from some heroic relative would've made her very happy. She did mention a classmate of hers, writing/presenting a letter to her dead father; Marji thought it was a touching moment.

I want to write Marjane Satrapi a letter. Not just fanmail, but a real letter. From human to human, sharing your soul in a handwritten paper.

Late and Lacking Wisdom

Yes, I know, I know, I know... I'm late. Very, very late. I haven't posted in a while, and I feel rather guilty about that fact.

So. Long story short?

One. Finished The Catcher in the Rye. I must tell you, I really did enjoy this book. Holden's loneliness and crappy social skills pulled at me -- although I guess those same behaviors irritated the rest of my class. Meh.

Two. Watched Ghost World.......... Oh wow. Female Holden Caulfield. And yet not. Holden clings to childhood, Enid craves adulthood. Both fail with relationships. Not to mention they can only seem to reach out when overwhelmed by drunken emotion. Overall, a strange movie -- go watch it. The symbolic horse will never leave my mind. :/

Three. Began Persepolis. A graphic novel (or rather, a graphic autobiography) told by Marjane Satrapi. It's the story of her life growing up in Iran, and it's a challenging perspective, I think, for any American to easily take.

But her childlike viewpoint is delicate on the audience and the imagery makes a vivid impact. It's a thick book that reads fast, and I would recommend this book to anyone. In any case, I think just about every American could use a little more understanding. Never before did I know the meaning of Shah or even give second thought to the pronunciation of the current Iranian president. Mouhmad Ahmadinejad, that is.

And I've been downright foolish for that. But I want to know, I really want to learn. As I read Persepolis, I just feel happy for the fact that Marjane published her story -- that she's teaching me.

Because what greater insult can you give to a country, than to ignore their culture?

Leave the lies to the liars...

Reading The Catcher in the Rye, the book that may have inspired mass murder. I hear it's a classic. The life and thoughts of a self-proclaimed liar... who hates liars.

Holden Caulfield is... a strange character, to put it lightly. For a single moment, he invites you into his world with all his self-absorbed talk, and then he spins it upside down. He tells one tale for you, and another version of what should be his own solid opinions for yet another reader.

At first, Holden is pleased, almost eager to deal with whatever/whomever he wants. Then he turns critical, intensely spiteful. Does he truly like this person, or doesn't he? Well, do you? If you do, then Holden likes him too. He really does.

... But then, do you believe him?

I don't know how to trust Holden. There are always two sides to his story. I've never met such a likeable, distasteful, irritable, brazen misfit of a character before.

Who is he trying to please? Or is he really trying to please anyone at all?

Because at the end of the day, Holden seems to believe that he is better than everyone else. He's lonely, I think, but he'd rather be alone than under someone else.

For most, I think it would be difficult to keep up this self-isolation when in reality, there's this craving for good company. But then, whenever Holden is around other people for a while, the social interaction gets to be too much for him. So he pulls back, he lies, he gets bitter.

It's a constant struggle to be around people.

'Ello Stranger

Hello. My name is... Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

Haha, I wish.

Hello. My name is.. crazy high school girl. Lazy senior. Potential to become... something. Later.

Hello. My name is. My name is.. recovering after life kicked my butt. Learning to trust. Dreaming the impossible. Thinking too much, saying nothing. Rambling in simple written words.

Nice to meet you. The purpose of my strange spiels is to update you on the literary thoughts of my puzzling mind. First off, I'd like to tell you about my favorite book.

And that oh-so-amazing book is Speak. Brilliantly written by Laurie Halse Anderson. For those of you who haven't read this book, it is about a young girl named Melinda, struggling through both the typical awkward challenges of high school society as well as a recent tragedy that's compelled her to hide her voice. It's a beautiful, artistic journey through the mind of a broken girl, learning to pick up the fragile, sharp-edged pieces.

Hello. My name is Riley. Honestly.

P.S. If you don't understand the Princess Bride reference at the very beginning of this post, well, that's just wrong. Leave now. Save yourself.