I really don't believe that this country pays enough attention to Memorial Day. Little me couldn't remember the difference between Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, and bigger me has the sinking suspicion that a large percentage of the population still has that problem. This is really, really bad.
When I think about war, I think of two sides, like two sides of a coin:
1) As a character in "Black Hawk Down" said, "When that first bullet goes past your head, politics goes right out the window." I am certainly not qualified to talk about the fog of war, but have heard that it is dirt and sweat and homesickness and blood and not enough sleep and pain and "is it worth it" and stretches of excruciating boredom punctuated by horrific excitement; ie, not glamorous. Hell, in fact.
2) On the other hand, there are heroes. Like that of the two soldiers who begged for permission to be deployed, fully aware that there was no one to help or back them up, to the sight of a fallen helicopter. They didn't even know if anyone had survived the crash, but when the arrived, they dragged the injured pilot out and fought for their lives against pretty much the entire city. The two soldiers, Gary Gordon and Randall Shughart, died protecting the pilot, who survived since he lasted long enough for the leader to take him hostage, and both received the Medal of Honor post-mortem. It is possible to die for your friends. People do.
That being said, what I think about most is not the war, but the aftermath.
What hits me is that I am what they fought for. I am the country that is "the land of the free and home of the brave." I am the girl who has not been killed or raped because someone won a battle. I am the one who is alive instead of another.
I am the only one who can make it worth it.
During the visit to hell "Saving Private Ryan," a dying captain mutters to the last Ryan, "earn this...earn it..." and at the very end, Ryan is crying over the graves, begging his wife to assure him, "Tell me I led a good life. Tell me I'm a good man."
For me, Memorial Day is not about remembering a list of casualties. It is about remembering my own role in the fight, and promising to fulfill it as well as the guy who kept shooting. It is about thanking the girls who did what I could not by doing what they could not. It is about becoming worth fighting for.
People need to be hit hard with what they have to live up to. Don't morn the dead, see what you can do to be the living.
Happy Memorial Day.
~Maria
Sunday, May 30
"Click"
When I was younger, I would try to capture memories.
I distinctly remember lifting both hands, both thumbs and first fingers shaped into "L"s, and fitting them together into a viewfinder. I remember whispering "click" when my baby sister was inside the frame. I remember thinking that when I got to heaven, God would be kind enough, or amused enough, to show me what my younger self had wanted to bring to eternity.
It has been quite a few years since then. I had almost forgotten what it was like to want a moment to last forever.
It was the middle of the night, and I had run out in my bare feet to to the bright garage, only to be invited on an impromptu motorcycle ride. I hope I never forget how it feels to run up the stairs as excited as a girl to sneak boots from beside a sleeping sister, or the feel of the cool night breeze on my arms while the humidity was still leaving my palms sticky. I hope I never forget Daddy's unconventional idea of "just around the block" or the way he saw deer so far ahead that there was no chance of an unexpected tragedy. I hope I never drop the last two letters in "Daddy," and since I'm 20 years old and they haven't left yet, I think that one will come true.
I rode for the first (and last, considering how much he stresses this) time without a jacket, and I gave in for the first (and last) time to the yearning to spread my arms like wings, just for a minute, since no one was around. I wished I could stay like that forever.
This is such a personal post, but since my days of hiding behind doors and pretending to record the sounds of baby laughter, I have learned that the real way to capture something, for me, is in words. Even if I never get good enought to transplant a feeling into a stranger's soul, the black squiggles will at least be magical to me. Thanks, God.
~Maria
I distinctly remember lifting both hands, both thumbs and first fingers shaped into "L"s, and fitting them together into a viewfinder. I remember whispering "click" when my baby sister was inside the frame. I remember thinking that when I got to heaven, God would be kind enough, or amused enough, to show me what my younger self had wanted to bring to eternity.
It has been quite a few years since then. I had almost forgotten what it was like to want a moment to last forever.
It was the middle of the night, and I had run out in my bare feet to to the bright garage, only to be invited on an impromptu motorcycle ride. I hope I never forget how it feels to run up the stairs as excited as a girl to sneak boots from beside a sleeping sister, or the feel of the cool night breeze on my arms while the humidity was still leaving my palms sticky. I hope I never forget Daddy's unconventional idea of "just around the block" or the way he saw deer so far ahead that there was no chance of an unexpected tragedy. I hope I never drop the last two letters in "Daddy," and since I'm 20 years old and they haven't left yet, I think that one will come true.
I rode for the first (and last, considering how much he stresses this) time without a jacket, and I gave in for the first (and last) time to the yearning to spread my arms like wings, just for a minute, since no one was around. I wished I could stay like that forever.
This is such a personal post, but since my days of hiding behind doors and pretending to record the sounds of baby laughter, I have learned that the real way to capture something, for me, is in words. Even if I never get good enought to transplant a feeling into a stranger's soul, the black squiggles will at least be magical to me. Thanks, God.
~Maria
Saturday, May 15
Upcycling
Once upon a time, a bought a new shirt. The second time I wore it I promptly ripped it. Roughly a year from the fateful day, I got myself to Ye Olde Goodwille and procured yet another gray shirt, took both of them apart, put both of them back together again, and voila! T-shirt couture.
Yes, I will wear it in public, although now that I think about it I should really reinforce the neckline...
While on the subject of upcycling (recycling, except better, for those of you unfamiliar with the term), I should mention that I managed to transform my tangled pile of jewelry into some semblance of order last weekend with some similar elbow grease. An old frame + some cup hooks that had been floating around my craft supplies + a partial can of black paint + some white crackle paint =
I am hoping to hang it on the wall. (inspired by these fancy jewelry holders.)
Today I am officially finished school, so hopefully this blog will pick up a bit. I love you all!
~Maria
Sunday, May 2
Art?
I never like my own artwork.
This kind of declaration tends to send my supportive family members into convulsions, but though I am subsequently passionately assured that someone else enjoys it, I am unmoved. You can find someone in the world who will admit to enjoying anything. That does not make it art.
However, I have experienced an epiphany! An "ahHA" moment! A mystical floating lightbulb!
I suddenly realized that I had never stopped and asked myself why I actually enjoy art, what kind of art I like best, or what I am trying to accomplish. How can you acheive something if you don't know what you are striving for? (It is technically possible, but the odds are against it.) I can point out certain qualities that particularly appeal to me in the art I see, but they are sometimes mutually exclusive, and the other questions are unanswered.
This, of course, led to an extremely confusing and somewhat passionate philosophical discussion that spread from the breakfast table to the living room hell bent, at least on my part, on figuring out if art was objective (your perceptions do not matter: it either is or is not art) or subjective (does not exist in the world, but in your mind: if you think it is art, it is). I retreated unsatisfied, and it is still bugging me.
Sorry that this is not a particularly inspired post, but I thought I should say something. Finals are next week, so once I am out of school I will be able to establish a regular schedule to impart my genius to the world. Prepare yourself.
This kind of declaration tends to send my supportive family members into convulsions, but though I am subsequently passionately assured that someone else enjoys it, I am unmoved. You can find someone in the world who will admit to enjoying anything. That does not make it art.
However, I have experienced an epiphany! An "ahHA" moment! A mystical floating lightbulb!
I suddenly realized that I had never stopped and asked myself why I actually enjoy art, what kind of art I like best, or what I am trying to accomplish. How can you acheive something if you don't know what you are striving for? (It is technically possible, but the odds are against it.) I can point out certain qualities that particularly appeal to me in the art I see, but they are sometimes mutually exclusive, and the other questions are unanswered.
This, of course, led to an extremely confusing and somewhat passionate philosophical discussion that spread from the breakfast table to the living room hell bent, at least on my part, on figuring out if art was objective (your perceptions do not matter: it either is or is not art) or subjective (does not exist in the world, but in your mind: if you think it is art, it is). I retreated unsatisfied, and it is still bugging me.
Sorry that this is not a particularly inspired post, but I thought I should say something. Finals are next week, so once I am out of school I will be able to establish a regular schedule to impart my genius to the world. Prepare yourself.
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