Too Much Store?

Back in the day (a.k.a. the early 1800s), when m.snowe's favorite authors had a pulse and were actually writing and/or publishing their fiction and poetry, they were the romantic/victorian equivalents of today's celebrities. [This goes mostly for European countries, anyway.] Today, we still have literary celebs, but on nowhere near the same scale. The followers of today's literary stars are more like cult fans--underground and often unnoticed. A few days ago, m.snowe was talking to a friend about a small, cheap diner in Brooklyn, and the friend explained how she knew of the diner, and that a certain editor of The New Yorker frequented the joint (and note, this editor's name is probably only mildly recognized in most literary circles). Upon hearing this, m.snowe asked: "But how did you know what he looked like?" Apparently, this editor had paneled as a judge during a short fiction contest that m.snowe's friend attended--otherwise she would have never known the guy next to her eating plantains was anybody of literary repute.
In comparison--back in the day, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone who didn't at least have a vague idea of what Byron looked like, or Wordsworth, or Blake. Yes, these were major literary figures, but m.snowe also knows that practically no one could pick out our current poet laureate out of a line-up. Or even if the common folk living at the time of these figures didn't recognize them, at the very least, their poems were part of the canon--the popular ideology of the day. Literature used to be a bigger part of everyone's lives--now its cordoned off into niches and groups of artists themselves, and scant appreciators. Or literature is converted into movies, adapted for TV shows, or otherwise ground up into some fine powder and sprinkled on top of our pop-culture ice cream, so no one notices they're being spoon-fed. Some current fiction writers have even claimed that writing has suffered because the audience is all fiction writers, therefore making all fiction about fiction, and using stylistic and other devices to impress the obsessively learned, instead of writing to please a larger general audience (which is essentially what the writers of 2 centuries ago were doing--Dickens was a tabloid serial writer, a literary soap opera writer of sorts--not that that should diminish his stature now).
The sad part is, despite the shift in our culture to mass adoration of movie stars and reality TV, many writers still seek to gain that renown which has not truly existed much past the 1960s, in terms of the culture (in the US) being saturated with poetry or fiction. (m.snowe realizes her views are tainted by her love of older literature, but, oh well). It makes her sad to see so many strive, so many who are talented, knowing that there isn't enough room for most of them, especially in today's economy. But m.snowe also thinks that writers, unless doing it for a living, need to focus less on celebrity and exposure. She says this, all the while acknowledging writers need more credit than they get. But on second thought, perhaps its better that writers aren't as celebrated as Byron--making love to that many ladies (and lords) just isn't advisable nowadays, and would be down-right hard to live up to.

Poetry!

M.Snowe realizes poetry is not everyone's bag. But if it is, here's a new site: http://msnowe.wordpress.com/
Hopefully it will be updated at least four or five times a week.

Cheers and Happy New Year.

simple pleasures post--awkward carpool edition

There are few things more thought-provoking than an awkward carpool with a random, slight acquaintance who is bordering on being mostly a stranger. Not only is it cost-productive and energy efficient, hitching a ride from upstate to NYC is like performance theatre--you're given a shot to not only learn some new and foreign take on the world--but you're asked to participate and create your own as well. The best situation is with someone you have a slight memory of in your past, who has some personal/relational connections (so you're not silent the entire 3-hour trip), but is distant enough that you will probably not see or hear from them for another few years (making it easier to conscience a fib or two on your end).

With the onslaught of voyeuristic--scratch that, M.Snowe means--social networking sites, it's become more and more easy to set up these impromptu car-ride visitations. Such an acquaintance (we'll call him "John") made this very transportation-proposition to M.Snowe a day before she was scheduled to head back to NYC, on what promised to be a very noisy, uncomfortable train ride back, once more, into the concrete trenches. M.Snowe quickly agreed--she loves new adventures into the unknown lifestyle reaches of old grade-school classmates.

After exhausting all talk of other people we mutually knew (ex. "Did you hear she got pregnant straight out of high school?" or "My grandma knows your mum from getting her prescriptions filled at the Rite Aid on Eastern."), it was time for John to turn down the ACDC and actually make reference to himself, and vice-versa.

It should be said that John had come across our path before--randomly at a social occasion in Boston, dressed as a movie character on Halloween. At that point, the situation was assessed and we realized, while we wouldn't ever be "besties," John was decent and friendly, despite a slight, what you might call "post-frat sheen," (which has something to do with too many beers and a style of talking that is usually heard on Friday nights at the local college campus). But the kind spirit was enough to secure M.Snowe's calm acceptance of a ride back to the city. M.Snowe isn't always looking for comfort or like-mindedness. Sometimes she just wants to observe, and be entertained.

One observation from these random car-ride glimpses into other peoples' lives is this: Our lives are a lot more diverse, and weirder than we actually think they are. In other words, because we live with our situations everyday, they become normalized to us, even just through repetition or reinforcement. For instance: John relayed to me his apartment situation. In his apartment, he lives with his girlfriend. Normal enough. But also living in his apartment: his younger sister, and her boyfriend. Fine, but weird.

After this strange bit of information, John decided to call all his buddies in preparation for the big party he was attending later. One of his friends was named Cookie. This was a male lacrosse player, by the way. He referred to Cookie, while acknowledging the strangeness of the name, but never explained its origin. M.Snowe has to assume that Cookie isn't actually his real name, but was frustrated to have no back-story. She imagines that perhaps he has strange moles that resemble chocolate chips, or has unfortunate, doughy skin. Hopefully it's not just due to an affinity for the baked good. Perhaps it's better to live in the mystery. At least she knows that this name actually has traction in the real-world of this old classmate, outside her wildest comedic dreams.

The best part of the ride came as we approached the city, and were getting ever-nearer to the George Washington Bridge. The afternoon had faded from a partial sunlight to a completely clouded and eerily foggy mess--the cars zoomed in and out of sight, and the trees ahead were barely visible through the thick clouds of condensed air. John turned to me and said "have you ever seen the movie The Mist?" Surely, M.Snowe hadn't. He went on to recreate the story, complete with spoiler ending: The Mist was the sign that evil animal creatures would overtake you and eat you alive. The very end of the story follows a car of four people--a father, son, the father's lady-friend, and another random girl. The mists are about to overtake the car as it has run out of gas, and the father has a gun with only three bullets. Instead of seeing his son and the women eaten alive, he uses the three bullets to kill them, and then awaits his own death at the hands of the creatures in the mist. Only after the apparent euthanizing does the father realize it was not the creatures approaching, but the help they had been so sorely seeking throughout their journey away from the monsters--the father had killed all three unnecessarily. Given the morbid and hilarious nature of such a tale, M.Snowe found it relevant, if not to this car ride, then to the experience of carpools and similar possibly-uncomfortable situations as a whole. We are quick to kill things before we can even see the dangers. Foresight is one thing, blind fear of the unknown is quite another. So do yourself a favor and allow the foggy memories of a past time to take the wheel once and a while, literally or figuratively speaking. You never know what you might discover. Also, sometimes the terror is just plain funny.

The Ocular Renaissance

This weekend, M.Snowe found herself at her other apt. overlooking the park (yeah, right!): the Met. (Note: M.Snowe isn't trying for pretension here, but merely suggests that given the amount of time she's there, the docents could justifiably start charging rent). Like any reasonable perspective tenant, M.Snowe surveyed the newly renovated space, which this month consisted of an exhibit, "Art and Love in Renaissance Italy." What first struck M.Snowe was the deep, rich color of the walls that housed this new installment, and sadly or otherwise, the depth of the walls was almost as impressive as the first few rooms's art, which was largely marriage goods (such as plates and jars). While some of the jugs and starter plates looked like recent acquisitions from a Medici-themed Pottery Barn, the dark cobalt blues of the wall washed over the art. The red of the next room was that of creamy indulgence--an intense red with brown undertones, a color similar to the tint of someone's blood as it has just begun to dry. The high ceilings made the rooms impossibly enveloping, and for the first time in a gallery, M.Snowe realized the empty walls are just as much of a canvas.

As the exhibit progressed, the walls got drabber, or at least unnoticeable--but the paintings increased in number and intensity. The paintings increased in a way directly proportional to the number of naked women on display, which isn't entirely unexpected in Renaissance art. M.Snowe takes great satisfaction in the idea of people in the "dark ages" and the Renasissance that came afterwards appreciating realistically portrayed women's bodies, if nothing else (because to be a woman in the Renaissance, like most ages, was a bum deal). This isn't to say the women weren't idealized--but somehow the definition of beauty seemed a bit more broad than today's version.

Browsing the paintings and their respective titles and artist names, M.Snowe was faced with a very general observation--the Met, or more likely whoever comes up with the titles of pictures, are just a little bit sexist, or at least a bit unbalanced. Not talking specifically of this exhibit, M.Snowe understands that curators often give names to paintings that are otherwise untitled by simply describing the major factors of the painting, for example: "Portrait of a Man,"or "A Bouquet of Flowers in a Crystal Vase." Many, many pictures, especially in the European paintings rooms of the Met, were the simple "Portrait of a Woman"--many more than the men. Why are the men more accurately labeled? Was it due to some lack of records on the female paintings, because they were females and Renaissance painters didn't feel the need to give names? Perhaps they were more fictional women, making naming unnecessary? Unless at least minor nobility, the "real" women often remain unnamed, and though men in portraits also were sometimes unidentified, the anonymous women outnumbered them sizeably. M.Snowe wasn't shocked or surprised, as the same situation happens in literature, etc., but what struck her most this time was the way that some unidentified women were described. For instance, M.Snowe came upon a captivating portrait of an anonymous youthful woman with a pale face, and fresh eyes, in the Renaissance exhibit. Her eyes seemed to leap out at you--they were alive. But looking at the caption, it said: "Young Woman in a Green Dress, Holding a Box." M.Snowe had to look again--and sure as the label, she was wearing a green dress (at least you could see the emerald neckline) and she held up a small metal casket, very Portia-esque. But the fact was M.Snowe had noticed neither of these attributes. The woman had been measured by her accoutrements--as if she was a vase or tapestry. It was nearly impossible to find any male portraits that described them "in blue suits" or "wearing pointy hats," etc.

M.Snowe is most definitely over-analyzing, but she can't help it--given a person's way of viewing art is often how they view beauty, and that translates into desire, which further develops and speaks to everything we are and do--it is blatantly Darwinian. The Renaissance artists valued the human form, the eyes, the pose of lustful anticipation--and they were less concerned with the outer shell of insignificance--more concerned with the emotional connection formed between art and art-viewer. Are we more worried about dressing up or analyzing what is already naturally beautiful? Have we lost focus?

PART 2 : Ocular Communion
Renaissance (and to some extent Medieval) artists believed that art was a form of transcendence for the viewer--that paintings were not a one-sided transaction, but a mutual communication that allowed the viewer to be inwardly effected by the external triggers engineered with the piece of art. Scoff if you will, but the concept still exists in a lesser form today--most believe that art has some emotional, philosophical, or other-mental effect on the viewer. But Renaissance thought held that when viewing an erotic portrait, the viewer could literally enter into raptures. Talk about hard-core porn. And funnily enough--the same raptures were said to take place when viewing religious iconography. In today's world, we are so used to, bombarded, and gorged with images that they no longer take any effect. They are commonplace--completely unspecial. These paintings were singular and unique to the Renaissance viewers, they held power and sway over the audience unlike most things could do today. In a sense, this kind of art has become the marijuana of our generation--it gets us hungry but we've moved onto much harder drugs sometimes just for shock-value (which also explains the deterioration of good taste). M.Snowe thinks the test of good art and good life is when something, or someone, is able to force a rapture by the simplicity of ocular communication--eye to eye consumption. Who would've thought just looking could be so sexy?

The Definition (and Necessity) of True Hate

(M.Snowe doesn't have a good handle on the nature of love--but she does know a thing or two about hate.)

The most common misconception when people form their definition of hate is this: it is the opposite of love, and the opposite of love can be defined as an anguished ire at a person, place, or thing. The opposite of love engenders ill-will and anger; it eats away at our good natures.

While all these things may very well be hate (as we commonly use the word), or at least hatred--this definition is not true hate, and certainly does not make up the opposite of love.

The opposite of love, or the concept of true hate, is smothered up and suffocated by one simple word: apathy. No matter what your definition of love, indifference would be its counter. Because no matter what, when you love, some emotions must be involved. When you truly hate, you are stoically separate--completely cut off, and often at peace with the notion that you have no reactions and no concern. True hate is like an inner death, an oblivion. True hate is a part of all of us. For instance, when those outside our circle of concern suffer, and we feel no worry and express no sense of alarm or wish to help--that is true hate; and the worst form at that. We all are truly haters in the larger scheme of this strangely plotted world, whether we admit it or not--it would be impossible to care about everything.

Reading As You Like It, it is clear Orlando despises his brother Oliver, and rightly so. But his hate is tested to the extreme: walk away into the forest, and his brother surely dies by the teeth of the lioness. Stay and fight the creature, and he lives. Some might say the opposite of love is to seek out and murder, the destruction of life. M.Snowe says it would be to stand by, unaffected, watching a murder--and feeling nothing at the destruction of a life. Had Orlando simply kept on walking, both siblings would have been damned, Orlando truly expressing the ultimate opposite of love. Orlando's decision to save Oliver may not have been out of love, but out of something baser, and something that allows us to pity. It was a good thing.

While M.Snowe thinks true hate should be used sparingly and with good counsel (and never when a life is in jeopardy), she can't help but think also that perhaps, in some cases, true hate is a gift to human nature that we should utilize. Disregard is a powerful weapon that is hard to establish and execute, but can be absolutely beneficial.

Apathy can, in some circumstances, be something to aspire to.

Problems with English.

M.Snowe used to think bocce ball was “babci” ball, named after people like her grandmother, a Polish “Babci” who was faintly perfumed with pickled herring and shuffled around lightly in quilt-patterned slippers until two in the afternoon. It was always satisfyingly ironic to think that the goal of bocce was to get your colored balls close as possible to the main ball, whereas Babci made no effort to get close to her grandchildren, as if the idea of intimacy was in any way a game-winning aspiration.

Sometimes spelling things and forming concepts of words is difficult when you're young. If you pronounce something wrong the first time you come across it and continue to do so for a while, then for the rest of your life, while you know the “correct” spelling and pronunciation, you may be condemned to remember your misinterpretation every time you see or hear the word. For the longest time during childhood, M.Snowe thought “approximate” meant exact—for no other reason than the word sounded official, and had the thrust of judicial finality, like a word you might find in a legal dictionary. But we are all in a state of nolo contendere against Webster’s 5^th. But the effect has been that now, whenever someone "approximates," M.Snowe gets the sneaking suspicion they know more concrete facts than they’re letting on.

Defense Against Fear-Mongering Women into Submission.

here.

A Modest, Concerted Proposal

Last night, M.Snowe was at a concert for one of her new favorite bands, who will probably turn out to be a one-CD-wonder (which is all the more reason to go and see them now when they're at the probable apex of their career). The music was good, the crowd was large and loud, and there was a fair mix of people of all ages, sexes, etc. (although naturally, it was a pretty white crowd, given the performers were skinny punk dudes from the UWS influenced by an eclectic mix of ska, African, and classical music). But what really grinds M.Snowe's gears was this: after the concert, while approaching the coat-check, a group of young men, without any pretense, yelled "Sex!" right in my friend's, and my own face, and preceded to stare us down like we were a steak they ordered at the chophouse. And some other dudes definitely tried to feel us up in the horde of people approaching the exits. Whatever, all these guys were obviously assholes, or at the very best just drunk, but either way, it got M.Snowe thinking about how some men assert themselves in such stupid, yet completely power-affirming ways.
M.Snowe could decide to try and bitch out these jerks (and all jerks who do similar things), but in the larger scheme of things, all that does is acknowledge an inability to counteract it--it makes me a hard-done-by victim--and these guys probably get their jollies from seeing feisty girls "act all defensive and shit." Isn't her anger adorable? Or super hot?
The real problem is, no matter how M.Snowe responds, guys like this will inevitably interpret the response in ways that cannot escape the fact that yes, she is female. So what's a femiladyist to do?
Here's one suggestion: give it right back to them. Women should do exactly as men do. Yes, this might sound first-wave-feminist crazy, but just think about it--it's like a form of social disobedience. M.Snowe doesn't suggest anything too despicable, but she modestly proposes that women need to think more with their own sexual organs, and their respective needs, instead of some dude's. Women should not blush at the idea of yelling out requests for sexual favors, or even giving a friendly pinch once and a while. If everyone did this, then it would no longer be seen as the determinant of whether a woman is a floozy (because let's face it--there's a huge double-standard where, in sexual situations, outgoing men are super cool but women are just whores). Once the playing field is level, everyone will see the utter ridiculousness of continuing such pursuits. And perhaps that's why women aren't as ridiculously/publicly sexually assertive in most cases--because some men make out-of-bounds sexual comments and act disrespectfully, and women immediately recognized the stupidity of it all, and abstained from such behavior. Hopefully, if those abusive dudes begin to feel the sting of their own harassment, they would get wise. Unfortunately, it would take awhile, given that these guys would treat it as a new game. But soon enough they'll feel like pieces of meat. And hey, M.Snowe isn't asking you to eat your young--she's just modestly proposing a social counter-revolution. Enjoy the concert.

Sub-Poetry (#1)

[M.Snowe creates quiet found poetry from the warnings and ads on a noisy N Train]

#1---N Train

Spicy Character
Success;
Take One,
Do Not Hold
Satisfaction.

Unfiltered
Fulfillment--
Dark wheat.

Do Not Lean
The next
Advancement--

Dry
Inquiry.



** If you find some poetic subway verses--please send them on, and please note what train you found it on. M.Snowe wants to collect at least one poem from every Train.**

Autumnal/Winter Meditation

Sometimes M.Snowe considers our "choices" as just a clever name for unavoidable circumstances. Self-determination is a fact, but underneath the Self, who is pulling those Determinant strings? M.Snowe doesn't think she has the right or the ability to name it.

Going back home, moments of meditation often occur right at this juncture--the entryway to a well-known street, with two seeming choices. You can no longer go straight, but must turn. You must alter your path--it involves manuvuering, and composure--a steady hand, especially in icy weather. Sometimes, it might seem easier to sit at the edge of the road, and peer down each way, or perhaps turn back.

Anyone who knows the area will tell you that if you turn left, the street continues, with copious houses and a turnoff onto the main street through town. If you go right, you hit a dead end, and a few hidden driveways. M.Snowe realizes that while she always turns left, her choices end up pulling her inner reflections irrevocably to the right. (clarification: "right" has nothing to due with political leanings, for certain.) And she's not alone. Charging down the main street, pulling up to residential spaces--all our thoughts are ensnared by that dead end, and the hidden driveways that surely hold nothing more than a junkyard, nothing less than our captive imagination. But we have promises to keep. And miles to go before we sleep.

Where have all the Vamps gone?

M.Snowe, by default, doesn't like to critique things she hasn't read or seen. So she won't say a word about THIS book or THIS movie, in terms of their literary or cinematic triumphs and failures (of which there is surely both, though probably more failures).
What she will talk about centers around these questions: What's with this vampire romance obsession, and why has vamp culture receded into the mists (or swamps of Transylvania?)?

The simple and recognizable mythologem of vampires, at least since the 18th century, has been one of stoic and impressive, pallid male figures lurking in the night and sucking the blood of unsuspecting villagers and otherwise common folk. The vampire has enjoyed a pretty unfaltering stint of popularity in the fictional realm. Despite the fear this carnal, yet immortal figure (who is almost always male) is supposed to engender, the greater population loves to read about him. Many have suggested (and it's generally accepted) that the concept of the vampire is a combined representation/juxtaposition of the themes of sexuality and fear of our mortality. Lots of characters and stories deal exclusively with these two themes of sex and death--James Bond comes instantly to mind.

But the problems M.Snowe has with these pop vampires isn't all the blood sucking and vague sexual innuendo--it's the fact that women today don't have a really good "vamp" counterpart to look to. Because the pop vampires of today have been translated into "loveable" (and we use that term ironically) characters--think Buffy's BF, Angel, and the twilight vampire, to name a few. M.Snowe might not be that old, but she does know that when she was growing up, there were lots of women "vamps" on television, and in books. And I'm sure if you look hard enough, you can still find some. But the mainstream culture, which by definition is a narrow and limiting stream at that, has sufficiently drowned any notion of really kick-ass leading ladies. Say what you will about Xena, Dr. Quinn, or even Buffy--but at least they didn't mind getting their hands dirty. And although there was sometimes a sappy storyline or two about falling in love (barf!), the women were never going to quit their jobs as intelligent, highly trained, kick-ass lady fighters with morality on their side.

What really grinds M.Snowe's gears is the current state of female "heroines" (M.Snowe detests this term, because by sticking "ines" at the end, she thinks it's a linguistic clue between misogynists that loosely translates into: "oh, not those crazy bitches again.") [This state of the female heroine can be seen in terms of political heroines too--Look at the popular treatment of Clinton vs. Palin. Sure some people recognized that Palin was "off her rocker" but generally she was an accepted and docile figure who "had it together" in terms of having a family, looking pretty, keeping her mouth shut, etc., etc. whereas Clinton was unfeminine (whatever THAT means!) and uptight, bitchy, and unlikeable--an unstable and unpopular character because of her strength.]

The twilight series, and others in it's vein (excuse the bloody vampire pun) create female characters that are entirely bent on desire for an unattainable sexual and immortal creature. Funnily enough, this is the one dude that will be most likely to suck all the life force out of the main character, but the docile and completely bland lead female doesn't seem to mind--in fact, it's a form of foreplay inside her warped sense of human relationships. But here's the funniest part--this series, though steeped in the vampire theme of sex, has no sex. I mean, if she's going to give up her dignity to follow around this creature, it's the least he could do. And despite their attraction as interesting fictional focal points, vampires are supposed to be feared, or better yet--avoided at all costs. Books and movies like this are basically saying: Accept and try to love those dastardly fellows who will take all you have and give nothing back. And that is the antithesis to any respectable, well-rounded and independent female vamp.



Add on Question: "But M.Snowe--You love Bronte's Jane Eyre so much--and wasn't she pining away for the vampirish, Byronic, Mr. Rochester?"

Answer: Charlotte Bronte's hero, Jane Eyre, was celebrated as an intelligent, independent thinker, who happened to have poor taste in men. However, she did not compromise her morals and belief in female Independence, and it is a defeated, blinded, and crippled Mr. Rochester who must kowtow to her, and ultimately put his own broken life in her hands. She makes a heroic and noble choice--and her independent nature shines throughout the novel--Rochester is the one who must change his act, a vampire slayed in the offing.

Because if someone already said it better . . .

. . . why not just quote them verbatim?

Two excellent posts on The Gay Recluse, here and here.

I Can't Go . . .

. . . But YOU Should!

Some of M.Snowe's favorite writers will be in attendance. . .

"No great improvements in the lot of mankind are possible until a great change takes place in the fundamental constitution of their modes of thought."

--John Stuart Mill. True.



"Conservatives are not necessarily stupid, but most stupid people are conservatives." ---JSM. SO True.

lighter fare

(Because M.Snowe feels like a good laugh . . .)

Here's some good stuff:

Dickerson on McCain scare tactics (because Obama will take your money, let terrorists invade, and let all sorts of liberal "perversions" run rampant across the country).

Just when you thought the Reagan era and all that came with it was over, here's a reminder that some horrible fads just refuse to die. Thanks, Xavier Roberts. For nothing.

Sometimes judging a book by its cover never felt so satisfying.

Electable

UPDATE: See comment about Direct Democracy. M.Snowe is no political scientist, so comments are always welcome to prove her assumptions wrong!

The elections are almost here, and M.Snowe senses the hush before the storm. The debates behind us, there's nothing much to do but hold our collective breath and wait for our turn in the booth (or mail in our ballots--which promises to be a complete nonevent, compared to the shiny metal levers and satisfying swoosh of a tattered curtain).

Then M.Snowe got to thinking about the electoral college system, and democratic republics in general. Any grade-schooler worth their lunch money should be able to tell you we do not live in a democracy. A direct, ancient-Greek-style democracy consists of all citizens (even if that term was a narrow one back then, eliminating many people) voting upon the laws of the state, in one location. Today, we elect those who elect for us, and in that way we are represented by proxy--because we as a nation are such a behemoth that direct democracy is just not feasible. People have complained that voting is pointless, that their individual vote "doesn't matter," especially in a state that is heavily tilted to one party. Well, they're right. And thank god. First, that's an asinine argument against voting, because if your one vote "mattered" in the sense it determined the election, well then the rest of us might all just sit home and let you cast your ballot for us. Seriously. Also, even though it is like a drop of water in the ocean, your vote does contribute something. If nothing else, it legitimizes your ability to criticize the government. It legitimizes your participation, and for once is something you can contribute that isn't a tax. If you're not that symbolically inclined, then it's understandable you don't care about the race. But you forfeit all rights to complain, in M.Snowe's book, even though your vote wouldn't have changed a thing, almost certianly.

There is a lot to be learned by analyzing one person's vote in a presidential election: you can campaign and vote for a certain person or a set of things, but ultimately the decision is a collective result of all the people around you, pulling the strings whether they know it our not. And that's the part that scares people away from the polls, in this blogger's opinion. You have no control over the outcome, and yet you are asked to take a gamble, invest your time, thought, and in some cases, your desire. It is the willingness to throw in your chips, bend your will, that makes elections a showpiece for life.

You might desire one outcome with all your insides, but sometimes it just doesn't pan out--you feel emptied, and aren't sure how to function in the face of this new state of being that isn't the one you were hoping to encounter. Life moves on--it must--but spectacularly it feels as if somehow you stepped off to the side, and slow motion is the only way to operate in the face of the spinning clocks and daily merry-go-rounds.

The fervor, the thrust of those last few electric months, or weeks even, still pulse faintly, and like a white dwarf, the density of thoughts can pile on and grow by degrees, even though outwardly you only flicker faintly to the casual onlooker. There is no longer any hope to energize you, the election over, no fusion reactions to heat the core. However, once the build-up of mass or pressure becomes unbearable, carbon detonation can occur. It's not surprising that our actions mimic the stars. We certainly didn't vote for it to happen this way.

Inside-Out (Where M.Snowe ponders clarity in a fog)

M.Snowe is often surprised by the wild extremes peoples' conjectures take. If there was some ultimate spectrum with the words "astronomically off-kilter" and "absolutely on point," written on either end, most conjectures/assumptions would fall close to one of those phrases, but almost never in the middle, between them. So it must be concluded that when M.Snowe (and perhaps a larger audience) tries to grasp the unknown, she is in fact grasping at thin air, and her chance of being spot-on is as likely as her chance of revealing her complete ignorance.

The problem that inevitably accompanies assumptions/decision-making is we are never allowed to be objective. We can never separate ourselves from...well, ourselves--which includes our hopes, desires, fears, angers, etc. And whether it's an attempt to lay these considerations aside, or use them to our advantage, each is a conscious effort that can never fully result in objectivity. For many decisions, this is a beneficial thing. We are rational beings after all..whatever that's good for. But it's when we try and piece together the thoughts and actions of those around us (with their own unique hopes, fears, conjectures, etc.) , that it becomes especially trying.

So if you're living in the confines of a frenetic Friday afternoon, take heart--your worries could be completely off mark, anyways.

Replacements (Or a post in which M.Snowe interjects some rambling and incoherent commentary)

The world is filled with replacements, stand-ins. We have vice-presidents, runners-up, understudies, bench-warmers, you name it. These are the literal and defined replacements, anyways. They serve acknowledged, and important (though sometimes under-appreciated) roles. In the absence or inability of the primary, they stride in and (hopefully) fulfill the duty vacated by their predecessor.

Not just people, but words, ideas, inanimate objects can serve as replacements. Language itself is a replacement of sorts--words serve as symbols for everything we decide to give a name to.

Replacements are often vital--they allow us to distract ourselves, come to conclusions not otherwise attainable, or maybe see things in alternate ways. And replacements are a healthy and necessary part of life--when they are defined and known. But there are also dangerous and distracting replacements, obviously. And sometimes there are quixotic ones.

Sometimes M.Snowe wonders if her favorite authors used writing as a replacement . . . for something. If that is the case, then it's possible that even the worst situations can produce beautifully prosed results. But then again, replacements are everywhere--and usually involve the same dichotomy: the replacement of a person or wish with something/someone else entirely.

The city has a bevy of replacement activity. People replace any number of real things with the superficial--money, clothes, status, etc. But in a microcosm as big as this one, it's also very easy to use stand-ins, or recruit second-stringers, without their full knowledge or consent. Many in New York have no problem substituting one person for another, or unfairly looking for limited, isolated things from a large swath of unlucky souls. It becomes difficult, if not near impossible to know, in such a large space, whether your presence registers as a primary, or just the least-offensive alternative. To assume primacy is egotistical, to view yourself as the replacement is damn-near depressing. So what does one do?

M.Snowe found herself running three miles, and had the sneaking suspicion that it wasn't purely cardiovascular-health motivations that got her trainers moving around the fluorescent-lit track. She might be replacing one thing or other, but at least the only one she tread upon was asphalt.

Agonizing Agape

Visiting an apple orchard is a great way to pass the time on a sunny fall Saturday. There are rows and rows of trees, lots of sky and a sense that even now, small joys can be gleaned from something as low tech as a ladder and a wooden pail.

The big sky is clear and the air is fresh--not the stifled kind that hangs in the air around the city.

M. Snowe, for the life of her (or more accurately for the life of her 9 month old nephew) couldn't then understand why such clear air could produce such polluted beliefs in her nephew's parents.

The actual words used to describe one presidential candidate were: "terroristic, socialistic, baby-killing bastard."

M.Snowe shuddered, thinking this is the language (and poor grammar) that her nephew is privied too daily.

Then someone let him suck on an apple, and he made a sour face the entire day.

One can only hope his ability to decipher the sour will adapt and strengthen with age.

How I Learned First Hand (literally) What Biden Should Not Do Tonight.

So last night, at a not so unreasonable hour, M.Snowe got on the subway at Union Square. Settling in to the normal routine of zoning out and ignoring those sitting around me as well as those who walked into the train with me, I failed to notice as someone attempted to get my attention walking through the subway doors. When he sat down next to me, I finally realized, it was a former coworker. He had moved to a different department and therefore a different floor of our building, so naturally, he was dead to me, aside from the occasional morning or afternoon sighting by the entrance to our building. What I could tell you about this man was that when I was working with him, he was intelligent and always on top of his work. While a hint of condescension was always distinguishable in him, it was never so much a bother for me not to respect and appreciate the work he did, which was thorough and on point. He is a middle-aged gentleman, with a mostly bald head and the slightest tuft of hair on either side, and he wore glasses. He might serve as a stand in for a Biden-like figure in terms of build.

He inquired how I was, and I asked the same of him. He then went on to tell me that "You probably don't know this, but I was fired from_____________. " Well, this certainly hadn't reached our floor, because as in most cases, the juicy gossip was too diluted by the time it traveled up the elevator to us. When he observed the raised eyebrows in response, he continued, explaining that his boss had either left or been pushed out of the company, and he was summarily told, without rhyme or reason, that his position was no longer needed. He stressed that they gave him no reason or justification for his termination. At this point, M.Snowe was disheartened and generally felt bad for the poor treatment Mr. Ex-Coworker had received, rather unfairly, from the looks of it. But something didn't sit right. When Mr. Ex-Co extended his greetings, he had said, "well, what are you doing down here at this hour?" as if it had been 1AM instead of just 9 or 10PM. But that was nothing out of the norm, for sure. But Mr.Ex-Co was much more relaxed-looking than I remembered him, perhaps because he no longer had to present himself as a professional acquaintance. He said some other things that didn't make the stale subway air any more breathable. But then, as he got up to go when we reached his stop, he rose and wished me the best, and I him. I was wearing a skirt, one that I had worn to work, which was professional and cut just above the knee, leaving just the knee plus a little bit more leg exposed while sitting on the train. As Mr. Ex-Co got up from the adjacent seat, he patted my leg with his hand, intentionally, and for a time period far too long for comfort. Keep in mind at work we were not close and I can't remember any time when he even shook my hand. At that point, all the respect, all the sorry feelings Mr. Ex-Co had been carefully cultivating were thrown out the train simultaneously as he exited. M.Snowe began to wonder if sometimes, the professional setting we've created is just a clever ruse that makes people think sexual condescension no longer exists, or only in extreme cases. Just because people behave themselves, doesn't mean the environment is completely free from bias and harassment.

Maybe (or even probably), M.Snowe is making way too much of a simple pat on the knee, but it was exacerbated by the fact that it was exposed skin, not trousers he touched, and for far too long. Maybe all that Catholic school education has gotten back at M.Snowe by making her too much of a prude while she simultaneously rejected the general idea of organized religion....who knows. But one thing is certain: a lesson can be learned, first hand if you will, from this that will help Joe Biden tonight... so listen up Mr. Biden: despite the fact that you are intelligent, qualified, etc., don't condescend, and don't appear sexist. Because as soon as you do that, even if it's completely unintentional, people will forget all of the good work you may have done. You can unmake years of hard work with a swipe of the knee, or pat on the head. Don't forget how idiotic Bush Sr. looked when he tried to "teach" Geraldine Ferraro about foreign policy in their debate, and how the crowd cheered her when she called him out on it. Senator Biden: be charismatic as you can, be strong and fight for your points when you can, but don't imply that Palin is dumb (even though she might be) and don't imply that you can teach her something (although you probably could). Also, don't ever, under any circumstances, talk or gesture to appearances. Like any good debater knows, once you hit the physical realm, you no longer have the power to make good theoretical arguments. Stick with theory, avoid physicality--because in theory, we're all created equal. It's when you come down to earth, you realize we're definitely not treated that way.