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Marriage and Civilization, concluding pages quotes

"Why should a young minority female choose the risky marriage of a footloose, irresponsible, jobless young man over the extraordinarily appealing stability of the paternalistic welfare system? Moreover, having this financial backing allows her to pursue men who might otherwise not have been available."

"The 'feminization of poverty' is simply a plea for a paternalistic state to take over the traditional role of men"

"Today with the precipitous economic and social decline of men of all races, it's easy to see why women of any race would feel frustrated by their romantic prospects."

"The major question facing future electorate is likely to be whether we will continue as a society built around the monogamous two-parent family or whether we will submit to the 'state polygamy' where women congregate around the major source of wealth-- the government-- while men slink off into their separate quarters to pursue a fading warrior culture-- played out at this time on video games."

I just realized how much I jealously guard my heritage from appropriation. (Or it simply may be that i finally constructed the sentence that lets me realize some axiomatic truth) Either way I realized that my jealousy is fierce enough that alarms go off in my head even when other Latinos assert their "Latino-ness." I constantly find myself judging how Latino someone is and whether they deserve to wear the mantle. And in trying to sort out this newly uncovered aspect of my character, I see new realizations about the tapestry of identity uncover as well, though not yet completely resolved. I wonder how prevalent this is among people of color. The habit of checking others' claim to this part of ourselves. The habitual insecurity of being "Latino" enough for someone else. And I wonder how many other people of color never realize how much this affects our lives.

Richard regarded his solitude as something sacred as a well earned badge of honor, a cloak to be worn to ward off life. As his safety. Solitude is who he was. This caused those in his life to view him with a barely veiled contempt. Richard was certain that he was not liked. Which is hard on a man. Maybe it was because he gave nothing that he received nothing in return. In any case, his situation had become intolerable. The closest things he had to friends were either imaginary or extinct. And Richard had reached a point of life where this was no longer enough. And then he met a girl... And she was warm. And she was sad. And she was maybe lonely in a way that reminded him of himself. She'd lost things that a girl should never have lost. And she knew things. And she taught him. And Richard thought: "Maybe this is what friendship feels like. Maybe." It was just a glimpse, they'd barely begun, really. But in those long, few winter days, she'd given him so much. Enough so that Richard could go on. And what had he given her? Just a few words on a page. Not much, perhaps. But for Abby, he hoped it was enough

the value of a stringed instrument that bears testament to its disuse in the thickness of the layer of dust that has collected beneath the strings along the fret board will always be a subject of minor discussion. I have one such instrument, a banjo. a well-meaning, under-motivated attempt at filling a long-resented gap in my abilities, the banjo moves from corner to corner. leaning against the bookcase, or the terrarium, sometimes laid on the bed and moved to the armchair during periods of sleep.

And while it may see neglect, the value of this banjo still comes under question for what it provides to a little girl and the older brother not wishing for that same gap in abilities to spread. I can make guesses as to what draws her back. For a five-year-old, the distance to her playroom to mine likely seems too great to pull her away from the bright colors and cheery songs of her children's programming. But it happens. I'll be reading or watching my frogs, and this little barefoot creature comes in and demands to see any one of the treasures in my room. The conch I blow in to make the house shake. The rattlesnake tails or the raccoon skull I keep up on a high shelf. The two frogs I keep alive out of the same child-like wonder that must draw her near. There are even some books she loves, on dinosaurs, on evolution, on mythologies of the world. But the banjo is unique among these treasures.

The banjo she doesn't ask me to get. She finds it and lofts it up into my arms without saying a word. Equally wordlessly, she climbs into my lap and pulls my arms with the banjo between them over herself like a lap bar on a carnival ride. And in this way, we play. When she asks for a song I play one of the two short ditties I know. But we don't need songs, just the chords, just our ears. We strum and finger the strings. and if i feel shame for my ignorance or the neglect to correct it, I can hope someone can learn to love playing music, particularly this little one.

I try to sleep but then I wake up

when you're gone, I really hate my dreams

all along, i try to live but then I think too much

welcome to the inner workings of my mind

music to wake an inner child

the sun still rises even through the rain

dies, died, will die. lives, lived, will live

I just realized that "lived" and "died" spell out the same present condition but not the same past condition. and i wonder how many times the simple marvel of the illusion of time shaping our language has made other people stop in their rapid-fire intake of information to really value what went to constructing a seemingly simple expression.

Hans Rosling had a question: Do some religions have a higher birth rate than others -- and how does this affect global population growth? Speaking at the TEDxSummit in Doha, Qatar, he graphs data over time and across religions. With his trademark humor and sharp insight, Hans reaches a surprising conclusion on world fertility rates.

CONCISE

AND SURPRISING

i love you. i'm not sure why. i'm not entirely sure that there isn't some momentary lapse in my ability to gauge my feelings due to an imbalance in blood sugar levels or the shifting of the gravitational pull of the moon. but the very ephemeral and (remarkably) still mysterious nature of feelings and emotion and everything about the human experience without a physical, tangible, quantifiable property, well, it suggests that the reasons and temporal integrity behind this burning desire to hold you close and profess a greater importance in defending your well-being then my own don't really matter. and while part of me hopes this is merely a moment of insanity that will disappear by morning leaving me just as vacant and empty as every other morning, the part of me that aspires to make a greater human being of the whole of me, that part seems fairly confident it won't need to guzzle sodas to feel this way again.

holding on for life-broken bells

little numbers- boy

break in case

my dream was strange. a statement that might seem a bit obvious, after all the nature of dreams is to deal in the absurd symbolism arising out of the randomness of waking life. So this dream was strange in that it would make sense if it were simply a story cut off from its origins in my REM state. it might have been the rye whisky before bed inspired by finishing Nick Offerman's book on "delicious living."

i'm digressing...

in the dream, i am an old man on his deathbed, (fortunately) surrounded by the people that love me (being a dream, I don't know who they were, but i knew innately that they comprised the small fraction of the earth's population that mattered personally). in the dream a small boy comes up to me and asks me why I look so happy when everyone else looks so sad. my answer went something like this:

"when i was very young, and very much lost, i traveled far away from my home. i saw many things that amazed me and unfortunately would remember near everyday since. Beauty was everywhere, in the mountains and rivers, in the hearts of the strangers i met and those i only saw as i sped along on my own itinerary, in the architecture, in the art, in the faithfulness of the people around me. and Ugly truths permeated in between, in poverty, sickness, neglect and hatred. sometimes i looked away, and sometimes i bravely refused to lie to myself and look steady. but too soon the time came to return home, to return to warmth and comfort and certainty.

i learned that a voyage, a journey, will come to an end. as you arrive, there is an uncertainty about what to do now, a doubt that your time will be meaningful, maybe fear of what's to come. and when your time to leave arrives, none of this is truly gone. you are uncertain of what's next, unsure that there was any meaning in what you have accomplished and done, and afraid of what's yet to come. but in that last leg to the end, to returning home, it all disappears. excitement blooms for rest and peace, and you begin to look fondly on what you did and who you brought around you. I'm on that last leg of the journey. i'm surrounded by these faces, these physical manifestations of the great, the minuscule, the beautiful, the ugly things I did and the beautiful and meaningful things I was lucky enough to witness. maybe i didn't see it all. maybe it was all collectively just a jumble of smaller adventures without any central direction or goal. but it was my adventure. it was my journey. and when the boat finally lands in the harbor, the plane suddenly hits the ground, all that will matter is that i'm home."

orwell

“All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand. For all one knows that demon is simply the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane.”

Blanca

she is an elderly, Ecuadorian woman that comes to our house every friday to lead us in bible study. i've never been to a bible study as they're described in anglo culture so i have no idea how our meetings compare but if they normally end with a 5 minute prayer (including some songs) where everyone hold hands and that makes you sweat really hard from standing still for so long, then we're spot on.

i initially resented her presence. it was unambiguously stated that the bible readings were a last resort as pharmacology and psychiatry hadn't worked against my depression and lingering PTSD. i tried staying in my room when she came around week after week, but they always came in there and dragged me out. when i started leaving just before she arrived to see a movie or go shopping, my car keys were taken from me. prayer isn't bad but something about hearing her speak drove me nuts and made me want to leap out of the room running, when i explained how uncomfortable she made me, it was explained that that discomfort was the exact reason I needed God. so i've decided to be patient and get past my own discomfort in an old habit: droning people out by reading, occupy the mind elsewhere. now its not so bad, still a strict requirement of continuing to live under my parents' roof, but bearable.

I decided to write today just because i thought her storie after final prayer was interesting. First, she told of being in the hospital roaming the halls looking for someone to pray for as they die (she does this with regularity, and I don't judge so even if I wouldn't do it, I can't find fault in praying with people who want it and need it). This past week she stumbled on a block where five consecutive rooms had "homosexuals" dying of AIDS, or more precisely AIDS-related illness. And though the first few chased her away, she says the Holy Spirit told her to stay strong, and outside the last room, the nurse (who obviously was familiar with her) led her in. and in the middle of her lengthy prayer, the young man passed.

luisfgarciarico

I am not a feminist. Don’t claim it whatsoever. Now before my more fervent feminist friends get all riled up, no the reason is not because I feel entitled to every girl I hit on, think Jesus hates reproductive rights, or that my ego hurts any time a female makes something of herself.

Truth be...

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